


Playing Along

by The Notorious Trollop Vo the Terrible (Voishen)



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Deadpool - All Media Types, Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky king of Cuddles, Coming Out, Conspiracy, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Narcotics Anonymous, Quarterback Steve Rogers, Rocker Bucky Barnes, Romantic Comedy, Sex Toys, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voishen/pseuds/The%20Notorious%20Trollop%20Vo%20the%20Terrible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in a career that is fundamentally unsuited for him, Steve Rogers is perpetually frustrated with his life despite appearing prosperous. Because of the pressures of his sport, Steve is unable to publically embrace his sexuality. Lonely with no sign of change in sight, Steve’s life is suddenly thrown into upheaval by a challenge to his eligibility status. In the midst of his ex-girlfriend getting married, his best friend getting sober, and a legal battle with the NFL, Steve’s whole world is collapsing on itself and he still can’t get laid.<br/>Enter James Buchanan Barnes: Living punk rock legend, sex aficionado, all around trouble, and exactly the thing Steve needs. In a world of alcohol, sex, music, and NA meetings, Steve finds the fundamental thing that was missing from his life. Bucky isn’t perfect, his situation is not ideal, the world is not fair, but Steve doesn’t give a damn. For the first time in a long time, he’s happy. To hell with the consequences. </p>
<p>(Very little football involved so don't let that deter you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I come Around

**Author's Note:**

> This story features a parody of the band Green Day. All songs that are attributed to the band Red Night are licensed to Green Day and are not mine. I am humbly using their lyrics as a fan because I feel they capture the spirit of the age and the feelings of these characters very well. I will make no monetary gain from the use of these lyrics and claim no ownership of them.

** **

**September, 2003**

                 The problem with California weather is that it never rains when it ought to. Steve wishes the skies would weep like they do in the movies. He should be surrounded by a monsoon right now. Water should be gradually rising up the sides of his car until he’s encapsulated by cold rainwater. It should rain so much that the river Nile magically consumes Los Angeles. That way Steve could go back to living in ‘de Nile’. Instead a delightful sea breeze drifts in from the coast. It’s a pleasant seventy degrees outside with nothing but white fluffy clouds on the horizon. He’s a selfish prick for feeling the way he does right now but he can’t help himself. A moment ago he was only vaguely cognizant that he’s fallen behind in life. Now he’s painfully aware that he’s without what he’s been trying to convince himself is ‘really not that important’. He should be happy, congratulatory, something other than stunned silent and yet he’s stuck. The feelings of envy and loss have tied his tongue in knots.

                “ _Steve? Are you there_?” The woman he once thought he was going to marry asks him.

                “Yeah!” Steve bursts, knocked out of his inappropriately long pause by sheer force of will. “Oh my god, Peggy, this is incredible!” He grips the phone against his ear and clutches the steering wheel of his car tightly. It’s a good thing he’s parked, there is no way he could have this conversation and drive. “So you’re going to have a real party and make it just like…”

                “ _Yes, just like a real wedding Steve.”_ Her chuckle is supposed to be in good humor but Steve doesn’t feel like he’s in on the joke. Maybe if he’d been able to find someone in the three years since they broke up this wouldn’t feel like such a slight. Maybe if he were in a position where he could be honest about the gender he would prefer to be intimate with, this wouldn’t be as heartbreaking as it is. But as it is, his ex-girlfriend is now all but engaged to the female love of her life and Steve still forcibly remains in the closet. “ _Angie and I are both going to wear dresses, we’ve already decided. Oh Lord there is so much planning to do! I can’t wait to show you all my ideas. We’re going to set the date for the spring so you can come be my best man!_ ” And now Steve is going to be the best man. Great.

                It’s absolutely revolting how much self-pity he’s feeling over this. Peggy is the whole reason he finally admitted the truth about his sexuality to himself. He owes this woman a lot more than a kickass bachelorette party. It’s times like this Steve wishes he was actually as noble as his fans think he is. He should be cheering and telling her he’s going to fly home to New York to celebrate with her tomorrow night. Instead all he can think about is his own shitty lot in life. Steve covers his face with his free hand.

                “You know I’ll be there.” He tells her in the most cheery tone he can muster.

                “… _Steve, is there something wrong_?” Peggy wasn’t fooled at all it seems.

                “Actually-.” Steve can’t bring himself to confess what a loathsome friend he really is. Fortunately(or not) Peggy’s news happens to come right on the heels of more obviously insidious developments. “I just got a call from my manager. My latest drug test came back and… it was positive.” Steve is not quite feeling the weight of those words yet. This is the first time he’s had to explain it to someone. Lots of players have this happen but very few of them are Steve. Steve is an NFL quarterback. Steve has won two Super Bowls in his five years playing pro ball. Steve hates his job and would gladly quit if it were possible.

                “ _Steven you didn’t!_ ” Peggy gasps.

                “No, no I didn’t, at least not that I’m aware of anyway.” He rubs at his eye. “Listen, I want to hear all about your plans later, I just have to go deal with this right now. I’m about to have a meeting with Fury, Tony, and Phil. I’ll call you later and tell you how it goes.”

                “ _Please do! And when I talk to you later we are going to discuss in detail why you let me tell you the most exciting news of my life while you had this going on_.” She sounds appropriately irate. Steve is going to owe her the mother of all gift baskets.

                Steve sighs heavily as he unlocks his car door in preparation to leave. Truthfully he’d rather run head first into his problem than sit and fail at being happy for Peggy. “I love you Peggy, I’ll talk to you later.”

                “ _Bye Steve, I love you too_.” She hangs up. Steve flips his cellphone closed and tucks it away in the case clipped to his belt. He steps out of his overly expensive Buick and locks the doors unnecessarily. It’s not like anyone is going to steal it when it’s parked next to Tony Stark’s custom red and gold, 2003 Bugatti. Tony Stark himself leans against the spoiler of his car with his arms crossed. He wears a seriously bewildered scowl and a bespoke suit.

                “Um hello?!” Tony yells throwing his hands up. “Earth to Steve, we are having a crisis here! What the fuck was that about!?” He gesticulates towards Steve’s phone and front seat.

                Steve grimaces and continues walking towards the elevator. He fiddles with his keys to occupy his hands. “Peggy is getting a civil union with Angie.”

                That actually does temporarily mollify Tony. He loves Peggy. When Steve and Peggy were together they used to have dinner with the Starks at least once a week.

                “Oh.” Tony blinks a few times as he calculates some difficult social formula. “I will send her some Champagne to celebrate and an axe to carve your heart out with.” Tony rests the pads of his fingers on Steve’s shoulder. “You doing okay there buddy?” He applies just enough pressure to let Steve know he’s being touched. This is Tony’s comfort level with non-Pepper human contact and Steve can appreciate the sentiment. He nods to Tony to tell him he’s alright. It’s a filthy lie but they have enough on their plates without getting his feelings of inadequacy involved. Besides, Tony doesn’t know he and Peggy broke up because Steve is gay. Tony stuffs his hands in his suit pockets and squares his shoulders. “Rotten timing.” He mumbles.

                “Tell me about it.” Steve huffs as the elevator doors open and the two of them step in.

                The elevator has a glass window on one side. Across a parking lot past a sizeable fountain is Stark Stadium, home of the LA Heroes. Steve loathes the place but he has to admit it’s architecturally beautiful. It would be a lot prettier if there wasn’t a three story tall banner with his face on it proudly displayed on the side.

                Tony clears his throat to get Steve’s attention. “Hey…before we get up there, as your friend I gotta ask, did you-?”

                “No.” Steve shakes his head. “You know how I feel about cheating. I wouldn’t do this.”

                “Do you think Fury would put something-?”

                “No!” Steve holds his hands up as if blocking something. “No. I don’t think anyone on this team would do that to me. There had to have been some kind of mix up at the lab. False positives do happen right?”

                Tony’s eyes bulge as he stares at the wall and sways his hands back and forth. “Yeah, lab techs are capable of error. It could be even worse though, somebody could be after you.” He shrugs his shoulders way up to his ears. “It’s not like we’re all that popular with the rest of the league on account of the fact we kick everybody’s ass without contest!”

                Steve hadn’t considered anything as devious as that. “Do you really think that’s a possibility?”

                Tony clucks defiantly. “I’d believe that before I believed you’ve used steroids.”

                Steve feels a little bit better knowing he has Tony’s confidence. “Well since I most definitely haven’t used them, so would I.”

                The elevator door opens and the two of them take the short walk to the conference room where their emergency meeting is taking place. Tony opens the door for Steve and gives him a sympathetic smile.

                The conference table is sparsely filled with only the most important of the team’s management. Coach Nick Fury, Assistant Coach Maria Hill, GM Phil Coulson, and now the team owner Tony Stark sit around the large U shaped table. Steve takes a seat next to Tony and tries not to look as grim as he feels.

                Fury glances at the gathering and decides it’s time to begin. Despite being officially less important than the GM or the owner, Fury is typically the authority whenever he’s present. It might be because he once saved a group of climbers after an avalanche on Mt. Everest… with a broken leg… and a severely injured eye. He might have eaten the climbers that died in the avalanche, nobody knows.

                “Nice of you to join us today Steve. I hope this meeting isn’t cutting into your busy doping schedule.” Fury comments nonchalantly.  He looks over the contents of a file which seems to have come out of a large envelope. The papers inside look like test results.

                Steve scowls. His frustration takes the form of anger and for a brief moment he forgets himself. “Coach, I swear to God if you really believe I’m capable of this, I will break my fucking contract right now and walk away from football forever!” Steve growls. If only he could walk away. More than one charity is funded primarily by his salary and his various endorsement deals. He couldn’t leave football without seriously diminishing how much he can donate. He’s done the math before and it just wouldn’t be possible to give the same amount and live comfortably or even uncomfortably. If it wasn’t for his charities and the connection he has within his team, he would never have renewed his contract last year. He hates football, he absolutely hates it.

                Fury bobs his head backwards with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Damn Rogers, calm down! It was a joke, this whole thing is a damn joke.” He passes Steve the test results. “Look what they found in your bloodwork.”

                Steve reads it over quickly. The odd rush of dread and hope makes the words hard to concentrate on. Finally he sees it. He has an unusual ratio of two human growth hormones in his blood. Steve could laugh. Of course he does! He has an implant which replaces the human growth hormone his body makes but can’t recognize. Steve has an incredibly rare genetic disorder called Kowarski Syndrome which causes the GH in his body to be malformed. When he was 5 years old he was barely 3 feet tall. Once he started growth hormone therapy he shot up like a weed but he didn’t start gaining muscle mass until his friend Sam started exercising with him in middle school. His story has made its rounds in dozens of magazines and is frequently cited as one of the most inspirational in all sports. He’s gone from one end of the physical spectrum to the other. Steve looks up at the people around the table.

                “Okay? So what’s the problem? I have a medical exemption for using human growth hormone therapy. I don’t understand why they’re upset.” Steve hands the file to Tony who has been making grabby hands at it since Fury gave it to Steve.

                Coulson speaks next. He has another stack of papers in front of him with its own separate envelope. “Apparently several people have complained that you have an unfair advantage because of your medical treatment. Last year’s Super Bowl win was the last straw and now they’ve convinced someone to sanction a suspension despite the medical release. If you play next Sunday, we forfeit the game.”

                Tony scoffs so loud it echoes through the sparsely furnished conference room. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!? Who said this was okay? I want a name!” He takes out his cellphone. “I’m calling the lawyers! We’re going to sue these pricks for discrimination! This is such bullshit!” Tony yells. He’s so angry he can’t dial the numbers. “Steve did nothing wrong and now they’re making him out to be some kind of steroid junkie! This is just sick! Sick!” Tony slams down his cell phone in frustration. “Somebody call Pepper!”

                “Why do we need Pepper?” Hill asks skeptically. Pepper is the CEO of Stark industries and usually stays out of Tony’s sports endeavors.

                “Because I need a hug!” Tony bellows.

                Steve’s own problems take a temporary back seat to taking care of Tony before he ends up having a full blown panic attack. Steve stands up. “Come on.” He says to Tony. “Let’s go sit somewhere with more air.” In other words, Steve is herding Tony away from the stressful situation.

                Tony takes the deepest calming breaths he is currently capable of. He gets up, recognizing when it’s time to remove himself before things get ugly.

                Steve gives the people at the meeting a nod goodbye as Tony clamors out of the room. Steve gestures over his shoulder towards Tony with his thumb. “I’m going to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.” Like call a press conference. The last time there was controversy about his team Tony called a press conference that ended in two restraining orders and a bill being submitted to congress.

                “We’ll make the appropriate complaints.” Phil informs Steve. “This won’t stand, don’t worry.”

                Steve isn’t all that worried. If anything he feels a great sense of relief. Now all he needs is for someone to tell him to lie low for a little while.

                “Lie low for a little while.” Fury advises calmly. “We’ll ask if we need a statement.”

                Steve feels his heart do a victory dance in his chest. He wouldn’t call this happiness but it’s not soul crushing depression either. “Thanks.” He says as he follows Tony out the door. That was the fastest, most rewarding meeting he’s ever had.

                Tony has wandered down the hall in the opposite direction of the elevator. There is a coffee shop with a balcony conveniently located should a crisis erupt and caffeine become necessary. Tony is taking advantage of the balcony where he can get all of the air he needs.  The pleasant sea breeze from earlier tussles his hair gently. Steve pushes the glass door to the balcony open and steps out to talk with his boss and friend.

                Steve sets his hands on the railing next to where Tony is leaning his crossed arms. Tony is half bent over as if he was going to curl into the fetal position but the railing got in the way. His chin is nestled in the sleeves of his silk suit. Steve keeps his arms straight and crosses one ankle over the other. His body language might be the exact opposite of Tony’s.

                “I think you’re more upset about this than I am.” Steve comments.

                “Yeah. Why is that by the way?” Tony asks with a grumpy huff.

                Steve has wisely withheld his distaste for football from his boss. Whether through willful ignorance or just a plain lack of social skills Tony has never caught on to his lies. “I think it’s going to be solved pretty easily. It would be discrimination for the league to ban me from playing. Especially since they are only choosing to do it now.”

                “They’re a bunch of pretentious good old boys pandering to meat-headed red necks with underdeveloped self-esteem! They’ve made the most violent, testosterone soaked sport they could find into some kind of ‘rite of passage’ for American men and ostracized anybody who couldn’t make the cut! Now that they aren’t the stars anymore they’re looking for a way to call foul. Fuck them for using your disability as an explanation for their emasculation! The privileged shit heads have no idea what it’s like to not meet expectations! Now they’re embarrassed because you’re going to be the most successful quarterback in history! You, the little guy who got his nose broken every three months for sticking up for nerdy kids like me that used to get the snot kicked out of them just because we were smart!” Tony sucks in air as deeply as he can and seals his mouth closed. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

                “Well to be fair to the meat-heads, it wasn’t every three months.” Steve chuckles. This is one of the few reasons Steve plays this obnoxious sport. Tony Stark is unique among team owners.

                Tony snorts and slowly shakes his head with his eyes still closed. “You are so lucky you put on sixty pounds of muscle in as many weeks. I once made a suit of robotic armor just so I could avoid having my wallet stolen. I got to wear it for one day before the principal told me I couldn’t be Iron Man anymore.”

                “Was that the principle that was also the football coach?” Steve asks, reflecting on the many stories Tony has told him about his hellish two years of High School.

                “Yes it was. The guy that was beating me daily was our best left tackle. Our football record came before my personal safety apparently.” Tony scoffs. Bad mouthing his former high school is one of Tony’s great pleasures in life.

                “So why do you own a football team again?” Steve teases. He knows why, Tony tells them all of the time but the guy could use the opportunity to rant a little more. At least until Pepper gets there.

                “Because it is ridiculous that the most asinine, entitled people in existence make millions of dollars a year playing a fucking game! Because I want everyone and their mother to know that a bunch of rag tag outsiders can redefine what it means to be an ideal athlete and a champion!” Tony stands up completely and holds his arms out towards the enormous stadium across the way bearing his name across its side. “Because I am a vindictive ego maniac and I demand that all those who tormented me cry themselves to sleep at night from the knowledge I’ve beaten them at their own game!” He points at his stadium. “Look at that fuckin thing, it’s awesome! And you know what I like the best about it?” Tony turns and claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. It remains there for exactly two seconds before Tony takes it away like Steve’s shoulder was burning him.

                “Huh?” Steve grunts, humoring him.

                “The people that play there on my fucking football team.” Tony tells him. He sounds a bit choked up. “I’m going to make them cry at double the volume for dragging your good name down.” Tony’s voice gets softer and whinier. “I swear to God Steve, I’m going to have my lawyers punch these guys in the balls with the law.”

                Steve sighs. “Tony…” If there was ever a time to just tell him how little he cares, it would be now.

                “No Steve, I’m serious. They’ll take you away from this team over my empty bank account! They may have bullied me when I was a fifteen year old know-it-all but they won’t bully me when I’m a fifty year old genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist! You are not going anywhere!” Tony declares.

                Of course telling Tony how he feels about his job would probably break the man’s heart so he avoids doing so at all costs. What it costs him usually is his happiness. “Okay, okay!” Steve rubs his brow. “But before you chain me to the field goal, can I please go back to New York for a bit? Fury told me to lie low and I really do need to go see Peggy.”

                Tony processes his request quickly. His mood goes from determined and somber to sunny and supportive in a blink. “Oh yeah, sure! No problem. Just keep your phone on you in case we have news for you. Do you want to borrow one of my planes? You can take any of them. Just tell Jarvis what’s up and it should all be taken care of.”

                “Great, thanks. I hate airports these days.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. Pepper opens the door to the balcony. Tony is as delighted to see her as he always is.

                “Pepper my darling!” He swoops over to her and gives her a hug. Pepper is holding her pumps in one hand. She must have taken them off so she could run.

                “What happened?! Coulson called me and told me you were having a fit!”

                “Oh you know, people trying to steel my friends and stuff.”

                Steve slips past them and gives Pepper a small wave. He’ll talk to her later. Right now he really just wants to get out of there.

.oOo.

                It has been very nearly two years since two planes were flown into The World Trade Center on September 11th 2001\. A third plane was flown into The Pentagon and a fourth was crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. The event will go down in history in the same vein as Pearl Harbor. It is the most deadly terrorist attack on US soil in history. Over three thousand people lost their lives on that day, about four hundred were police officers and fire fighters who died when the twin towers fell.

               The attacks made al-Qaeda and Osama Bin Laden household names and directly resulted in the launching of Operation Freedom.  President George W. Bush famously declared in a speech following the attacks that, “We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”  Operation Freedom began on October 7th, less than a month later.

               Another immediate effect of 9/11 was the creation of the Transportation Security Administration, TSA. Prior to 9/11 airport security was handled by the airport itself. The increased security measures include requiring ID and the name on the ticket to match, shoe removal, screening of all baggage, no liquids above 3.4 ounces allowed through check points, electronics must be removed from luggage and scanned, all outerwear(jackets) must be removed, all passengers must submit to either a body scan or pass through a metal detector, more extensive pat-downs, and no more non-ticketed visitors beyond the check points.

               For those who are lucky and wealthy enough to own a private plane, like Tony Stark, air travel remains mostly unchanged. Aside from no longer being able to drive directly to where the plane is waiting(a private parking lot is available at the airport or airstrip as well as transportation to the plane) passengers do not go through security check points at all. Pilots can request to check the passengers’ bags but rarely do.

               For Steve this way of flying is the only way to go. As a six foot four, two hundred forty pound celebrity even first class travel is cumbersome. Steve also enjoys sketching on long flights. On one occasion where he did choose to fly commercially his art supplies were rooted through in a manner he found disturbing. They almost took apart his electric pencil sharpener because they thought it could be a bomb. Steve flies to New York in Tony’s luxury jet and only thinks about why it is nessisary to do so about four times during the six hour flight. 9/11 changed his world in more ways than just air flight. He lost a good friend because of Operation Freedom. The very man who loaned him his plane broke down in front of him just last May during the bombing of Baghdad. They call Tony The Merchant of Death for a reason.

 

.oOo.

                Steve hasn’t been in New York for almost two months. Training and the pre-season kept him busy despite his desire to return. He keeps the things that are the most important to him in and around his Brooklyn apartment.

                His keys jingle together as he finds the right one for the lock. It should be easy because it is the fanciest key Steve has ever seen and yet it always hides. His next door neighbor steps out of her apartment as he finally finds the elusive key. He smiles at her politely. The acknowledgment is a bit overly familiar considering they’ve only ever talked in the hallway but for some reason they’ve always been “chatty”. His gorgeous, redheaded neighbor waves back at him as if they lived in a much friendlier part of the world.

                “Hi Steve.” She says pleasantly, she tucks her hands in her pockets. She wears a fine leather coat that covers down to her thighs. Steve sees no sign that she’s wearing anything under it except a pair of black nylons. Her makeup is dark and sultry like that of a vixen from a James Bond movie. Before he accidentally found out what she does for a living he used to think she was a spy.

                “Hi Natasha. Going out for the night?” He asks offhandedly. She probably thinks he’s trying to ask her on a date or something. It’s pretty sad that a man can’t ask a beautiful woman what her plans are without seeming like he’s looking for a way to be in them. Accompanying her is not his intention in the least but now he’s worried he’s coming off as creepy. She passes him without the slightest indication she’s bothered or that she intends to chat.

                “Nope, just picking something up outside.” She answers. Her voice seems like it belongs in a smoky lounge of some sort. Steve decides to leave her alone before this gets awkward.

                “Okay, have fun with that.” Steve pulls his luggage into his apartment but doesn’t miss her knowing chuckle or the smug ‘I will’ that follows. Steve closes the door before he gives in to the urge to snoop despite his best interests. Once inside Steve pushes aside all thoughts of his quirky neighbor in favor of looking over his home.  

                The lights turn on automatically when he opens the door. They are set to be just the brightness Steve likes. It’s night outside. The blinds that cover the floor to ceiling windows turn to let in the city lights. The view of the city skyline across the water is as spectacular as always. Steve sets his keys in a little stoneware bowl on an entryway table and kicks off his shoes. He bumps the door closed and it locks automatically. His front door leads into his living room and conjoined kitchen. An island surrounded by bar stools divides the kitchen space from the hard wood flooring around the entryway. A hallway leads away from the kitchen to a bathroom, a guest bedroom, Steve’s art room, and the master suite. Steve has his own full bath connected to his bedroom. From what he can see from the doorway, the cleaning service seems to have kept everything in perfect condition. Steve flicks on the light switch for the display cases to look over his treasures.

                As much as he would have liked to have continued to live in the neighborhood he grew up in, he couldn’t keep his various collections there in a partially uninhabited apartment. His home neighborhood, despite the fact he himself always felt safe there, would not have been safe for his expensive things when he isn’t around. Nobody from Bed-Stuy would steel from Steve or his mom but Steve didn’t want to take chances that an outsider might try their luck. The apartments he looked at before buying this one didn’t have the same quality of security system as this one does. His belongings would be well looked after in spirit but the hardware was missing. In the end he decided that giving up his zip code was worth getting to own the things he always dreamed of having. Steve has a couple million dollars’ worth of baseball memorabilia in his living room.

                He’s got it all: Framed, signed jerseys from his favorite hall-of-famers, the bases from the first ever World Series game, several famous, broken bats accompanied by photos of the swings that broke them, 24 autographed home-run baseballs, posters from when the Dodgers used to be in Brooklyn, he even has the ‘E’ from the Ebbets Field sign (He’s not sure if it’s the first ‘E’ or the second but he’s sure it’s from ‘EBBETS’), and more.

                There is not a speck of dust in sight. He’ll send the cleaners a nice tip in the morning. For now he just wants to sleep. Maybe he’ll call Sam and tell him he’s in town. Maybe he’ll want to go for a run in the morning. Steve takes the home phone off the charger station on the kitchen counter and carries his suitcase back to his room. He dials Sam’s phone number as he walks.

                Sam picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

                “Hey.” Steve greets as he sets his suitcase down by the walk-in closet. He looks around and is pleased to see nothing has been disturbed. “I’m back in town, you too busy to see me tomorrow?” Steve asks with a familiarity established through years of knowing each other.

                “ _Uh_ ….” Sam blows out some air as he mentally reviews his schedule. “ _I think I can shake it. I’ve got class at one but other than that I’m free. You wanna go for a run_?”

                “That’s what I was thinking.” Steve opens the closet to check on his other ‘treasures’. The huge cabinet sits like a monolith along one wall of the deep closet is locked up tight just like he left it. It has a custom made combination lock like a safe. Steve leans against the cabinet as he talks to his friend casually. “I’m kinda beat from the flight but if you want we could do dinner too. I gotta tell you about this thing that just happened.”

                “ _You mean that thing that’s on every channel? Yeah, I’ve heard. Listen I’d love to chat and eat but I’ve got this meeting to go to and I shoulda been out the door five minutes ago.”_ Sam tells him apologetically.

                Steve looks at the time on the phone screen again. It’s 9:24 pm. What the hell is Sam doing that requires a meeting this late?

                “You mean you’ve got a date?” Steve clarifies because he thinks he smells bullshit.

                “ _No Steve, I mean I’ve got a meeting. I’ll see your nosey ass at your place tomorrow morning at seven.”_ Sam shoots back at him. That’s a tad defensive, Steve thinks.

                “Okay Sam, have fun at Vampires Anonymous.” Steve jokes.

                 Sam doesn’t reply or hang up for a tense moment. Steve realizes somehow he managed to offend the otherwise unshakeable Sam Wilson with a joke about vampires. It wasn’t even a good joke about vampires.

                “ _Actually man…I’ve got something to tell you too_.” Sam begins with more trepidation than Steve thinks he’s ever heard from him. “ _I’ve been getting some help for the past month from these people who do that. They aren’t vets like me, they’ve just kinda been through the same shit with you know…It’s that thing you helped me look into.”_

                Wow. Steve is such a jackass. How did he not see how thoughtlessly dismissive he was being?  ‘Vampires anonymous’?! Sam is going to fucking Narcotics Anonymous!

                “Hey, you can tell me all about this tomorrow. You should go to your meeting. I’ll see you in the morning okay?” Steve puts as much understanding and (hopefully) empathy in his words as possible.

                “ _Yeah, you’re right gotta go. See yah tomorrow_.” Sam hangs up effectively decapitating the unpleasant conversation before it can get any more awkward.

                Steve tosses the phone up and down a couple of times as he walks out of the closet. In retrospect, he should have known Sam was going to NA. They talked about it the last time Steve was in town. Sam was on the fence about trying a program but he knew that his dependency on pain medication had gone way past what it should have been. Steve had even helped Sam do research! Sam didn’t tell him he’d actually started going… Steve sits down on his bed and sets the phone down on the night stand.

                His brain feels swollen from the force of so many new developments drilling their way into his grey matter. First Peggy’s wedding, then his suspension, now Sam is trying to kick his addiction to pain killers. Steve can’t think of a more perfect storm of drama. He lies back on the bed with his calves hanging off the side. How is he supposed to sleep after all of this? He stares at his stucco covered ceiling for five minutes before he gets up to go turn on his computer.

                The white and clear plastic box and screen take up most of the space on the desk in his art room. It’s a brand new Power Mac. It cost him almost three thousand dollars and the damn thing still takes five minutes to boot up the internet properly.  Tony says broadband is way better. He’s almost certainly right, but if Steve goes off of dial-up then people will be able to call him while he’s using the internet. Steve uses the internet primarily to find porn and order sex toys, neither of which are things he’d like to have interrupted by his mother.

               He’s not really sure what he’s doing when he searches for Narcotics Anonymous but before he tries to ponder it out he’s already clicked on the first interesting link. Several hours later, after reloading the paper in his printer twice, he now has a small library of information about NA and 12 step programs. He tells himself he’s doing this because he’s worried about Sam and he wants to help. Ever since Sam got hurt in Afghanistan, the same day Riley died, he’s been using pain killers. Sam nearly died right alongside Riley but the medics were able to keep him alive somehow. Sam has had four surgeries to remove shrapnel and scar tissue. For several months he needed pain killers just to function. He came home a year and a half ago. As of the last time Steve talked to him about it he was still taking as much Vicodin as he was when they sent him home after surgery.

               As Steve reads over the pamphlet entitled “Am I an Addict?” he realizes Sam probably would answer yes to many of these questions. Well obviously, since he has been going to meetings. Steve rubs his sore eyes. What is he doing? He can’t diagnose his friend and solve all of his problems by reading every scrap of material he can find. Even if he could somehow find answers for Sam, he’s the last person that should try to help others get their life in order. He can barely keep his own life from combusting spectacularly or worse, burning out and cooling to dust. At the rate he’s going, he’s going to die famous and miserable of a suicide at age forty.

               Jesus. Steve is startled by his own thought. Is that really what he thinks is going to happen to him? He’s going to kill himself? Does that make him suicidal or just realistic?

              Steve sets down the printed out pages and walks out of his art room. He’s had way too much introspection for the night. Time to jack off for ten minutes and cry himself to sleep.

.oOo.

              That night Steve dreams he’s an addict. He lives alone in an apartment that looks a lot like his apartment. He goes to work to keep up the appearance that he’s fine but he knows he’s not fine. He uses every day and he knows he’ll never stop. He has good reasons for what he does even though it wounds him to keep doing it. He can’t stop using because if he does other people will suffer. In his conscious mind he would never admit it, but he knows that he keeps using for himself more than anyone. He can’t go back to being pathetic. If they know, they’ll mock him just like they used to when he was small. He can’t take it. He’s already miserable, he can’t add the ridicule of a hundred thousand bigoted fans calling him every dirty word they can think off. A part of him knows that if he quit using he might get better. If he just stopped maybe he could find someone. Steve needs a someone.

               Then the someone he dreams he’s with turns into Ronald McDonald and things get really weird. There are chicken nuggets and barbecue sauce involved. Ronald McDonald has a chubby kink.

.oOo.

                He can’t just have eggs and bacon like the rest of the world, he’s got to eat this special protein monstrosity that the team nutritionist swears by. It makes Steve gassy. He doesn’t stew in his contempt for the protein shake like usual. Steve thinks about his dream obsessively as he makes himself breakfast.

                Ronald McDonald aside, his dream had a point. Steve glances at the check list of questions written by addicts to help people think about their own situation. Rather than think of drugs in the literal sense, he envisions the questions asking about hiding the way he is. About half the questions don’t seem applicable because he’s never been in any kind of trouble because of hiding. If anything he might be in trouble for not hiding… at least in some states. Still, a good half of the questions hit disturbingly close to home.

**Does the thought of running out of drugs terrify you?**

                In other words does admitting the truth terrify you? Yes definitely.

**Do you feel it is impossible for you to live without drugs?**

                If he stopped lying his life would probably implode, so yeah he’ll consider that a yes.

**Do you ever question your own sanity?**

                Every damn day.

**Is your drug use making life at home unhappy?**

                Yes.

**Have you ever thought you couldn’t fit in or have a good time without drugs?**

                He knows for a fact that three fourths of his ‘friends’ would not want to be around him if they knew about his sexuality. On the rare occasion that he is forced to attend a social event, the number of times his own teammates use derogatory terms towards gay men makes him want to scream. He would not fit in with his entire sport if he came out as gay.

**Have you ever felt defensive, guilty, or ashamed about your using?**

A total of three people know about his sexuality: His mother, stepfather, and Peggy. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to tell even his closest friends and it drives him insane.

                There are several other questions that he would answer yes to. He barely tastes his nasty protein shake as he drinks.

                There are three statements at the end of the pamphlet. 

**We faced three disturbing realizations:**

  1. **We are powerless over addiction and our lives are unmanageable;**
  2. **Although we are not responsible for our disease, we are responsible for our recovery;**
  3. **We can no longer blame people, places, and things for our addiction. We must face our** **problems and our feelings.**



                The first one is almost not true for him. He is not totally powerless over his lying. He does it of his own free will even if he does it for good reasons. The fact is, coming out would mean putting himself in jeopardy both physically and emotionally. Being out and gay would be more dangerous for him than it would be the rest of the population. He would not be the first person killed because they were gay and there are a whole hell of a lot of crazy people out there whole might murder a celebrity as a symbol. They probably watch football too. His life is not unmanageable, it’s unfair. He has to choose between two bad situations somehow. It’s either unhappiness or danger.

                The second one makes him feel even more hopeless. He’s not responsible for having to hide, society is. If he ‘”faced his problems and feelings” he’d be doing it with opposition from himself and from the world. His responsibility would involve taking on nothing less than the culture of the United States, possibly the world. He can’t really recover if the symptoms of quitting remain forever right? His disease is a curse placed on him because of forces he can only try to combat. How does one man change millions of people’s ways of thinking?

                But then there is the last statement which sort of belays everything he’s been telling himself for three years since he discovered his sexuality. The pamphlet is right. He can’t blame the environment for his own cowardice. If he wants to overcome his “addiction” and be happy he’s going to have to stop making excuses, even if they makes sense, because the way he’s living isn’t working for him. He’s so messed up he’s reading a fucking NA pamphlet!

                The thing is, he’s not ashamed of his sexuality. No amount of pressure from the world could make him doubt the “rightness” of his sexual identity. Some people think it’s a disease, Steve has never believed that even back before he knew how relevant homophobia is to his life. Steve sees nothing wrong with what gives him pleasure, but the opinions of others still bite at him. He doesn’t get it. Why do people care so much about what other people do in their bedrooms? If it’s so offensive to them, they should do it personally. People who feel the need to impose their moral values on others need to shut the hell up in Steve’s opinion. If he was _out_ he’d go speak at every event they’d let him come to so he could voice just how he feels about bigotry.

                The worst part is people assume because he plays such a masculine sport that he must think that way. Not all football players are homophobic. Most of them say nothing and apparently are neutral on the topic. But there are some players who are exactly the thing he hates.  Steve has met some men who condemn homosexuality so strongly Steve fears what these hyper-aggressive pro-athletes would do to a gay man if they came across one (and recognized them as such). Even he would be a target if he came out. Right now he’s one of the in-crowd but if he admitted the truth he would not be. He’d still be rich, white, and male but being gay would put him right back where he used to be when he weighed ninety five pounds soaking wet. Being small wasn’t his fault but that didn’t stop the school bullies from giving him a hell over it. He was an easy target for every kid looking to gain some social status by winning a fight with the mouthy liberal kid. Unlike being gay, being small did bother him. Call it vanity, but Steve never felt good about himself. Steve is so lonely as it is, being an outsider again would destroy him. Not even Sam paid him any mind before he started going to the gym to gain some muscle. How many friends would he lose over this? How many people would try to shame him? How many people would be disappointed? His own mother was sad when she realized Steve wouldn’t produce any biological grandchildren for her. Letting people down has never been something Steve has been able to live with. Even when he was small he always tried. But he can’t change the way he is, not this time. He is going to have to make this work somehow. He was right last night, being this lonely forever is going to kill him.

                His cellphone rings. It’s Sam probably telling him to buzz him in. Steve opens his phone and grunts into the receiver as he hits the button for Sam to come up. Steve hangs up without actually saying words. How does he begin? Honesty isn’t hard, it’s brutal. Sam knocks on the door. Steve’s thoughts do not disburse as he opens it for his best friend.

                Sam looks at him like he’s very concerned. Steve usually isn’t a grunt into the phone kind of guy so he doesn’t blame him. Steve must be making a hell of a face right now too. “Hi?” Sam steps inside, wrapping up his umbrella with its little tie as he moves.

                “Sam, what would you do if I just confessed a huge secret to you out of the blue?” Steve asks before he can decide if this is a good idea or not. This would be how to start wouldn’t it? He’d have to stop ‘using’ to ‘recover’. Sam would be an excellent person to come out to. In fact, Sam should have probably been told before his parents were.

                Sam stares at him, still looking concerned. “Is this the ‘could ruin our friendship’ kind of confession?”

                “Yes.” Steve knows Sam is no homophobe. He’s very supportive of Peggy and Angie and has never made any nasty comments about his “lesbian bitch ex” like some people he knows. Sam has always been completely respectful of Peggy and Steve can’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t give that same respect to him. The only reason this might be a friendship ending confession is because Steve should have confessed it three years ago.

                “Dude, you let me cry on your shoulder for as long as I needed after my best friend died. I would not have made it through that week if you hadn’t flown to that hospital and stayed with me. There is nothing you could admit to me that would make me think you are not the most amazing human I have ever met.” Sam tells him in all seriousness. “And now you are going to have to tell me because I am crazy curious.” The corners of his mouth curls a little bit. He’s clearly trying to fight a smile but it’s not working. His face overcompensate keeping his lips neutral.

                This is Sam. This is not the world, this is Sam. He feels oddly normal bodily as he opens his mouth. He realizes his cheeks are flushing. So long as he doesn’t vomit he thinks he’s doing alright. Just two words and he’ll be free, freer anyway.

                “I’m sorry.” Steve cringes. Those were not the right two words. That was a false start, he can try again. “I really should have told you a long time ago but I’ve just been so messed up about it and the whole public image thing…” Steve realizes he’s doing something with his hands. They’re moving rigidly like he’s moving a box. Sam glances from Steve’s hands to his face.

                “Okay you’ve got five seconds to spit it out or I’m going to tell you some things you do not want to know about me. Like seriously, I once had dysentery for a month.”

                Steve blinks twice at Sam. “How dare you bring up explosive diarrhea as I am trying to confess my dark secrets.”

                Sam shrugs. “You were taking yourself too seriously. Had to be done.”

                He’s about to just say it, he really is, but then he realizes this isn’t right. He can’t just lay this on Sam for no reason. It’s just not the way these things are done. If he’s going to tell him he should take him to dinner, bring up some kind of important “gay topic” and explain it until he can naturally just come out and well… come out. He should write a speech or something. He is astonishingly bad at speeches about his personal life despite being exceptional at public speaking.

               Maybe he should have a party and get one of those male strippers that pops out of a cake? He could have them write “Steve is gay” on their abs or something. Then again… that’s something Tony would do so it’s probably a bad idea. If he told Tony he would almost surely send him ten strippers wearing red, sequined booty shorts with “Steve likes dick” written on them. He’d send them when Steve is at practice so he could contractually order him to receive a lap dance. Yeah, better just put off telling everyone. He’s not ready for the kind of attention he’s going to receive even if it’s in good fun. At this stage of sexual frustration he might actually enjoy a lap dance from a sequin-clad stripper even if it was in front of his mother.

               “I’m pretty sure my nutritionist is feeding me stem cells.” He explains in a deadpan voice. It’s easy to do now that he is picturing getting a lap dance in front of his mother.

                Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay keep your secret then. I wasn't that interested anyway."

                “Don't worry it wasn't that exciting."His usual levels of self-hate rise like the great flood. What even died in the great flood other than bad people? Unicorns? That’s extremely appropriate for a reason Steve just can’t put his finger on.

                “Yeah. You’re acting weird.” Sam studies him again. “Did you sleep at all last night? You look like the living dead.”

                “Thanks Sam. I try.” Steve scratches his brow. “No I didn’t sleep much.” He makes his way over to his couch and sits down. Sam follows him and gladly plops onto one of Steve’s rich Italian leather couches. He mutters something about baby’s skin under his breath.

                “Was it the suspension thing?” Sam asks, tastefully inquisitive as always.

                “No actually.” Steve admits reluctantly. He’s not sure if Sam really does want to talk or not but now that the topic seems to have materialized, he goes for it. “I was thinking about you. Are the meetings working out for you?”

                Sam, to his credit, doesn’t seem all that bothered. “So far so good. It’s been rough weening myself off of the pills but…” Sam tucks his lips in and furrows his brow. He stares at a baseball signed by Lue Garig as he thinks. “Most of the pain comes from other stuff. I think about Riley about every five minutes.”

                Steve is never sure how to conduct these moments. Is he supposed to encourage Sam to talk about Riley or should he not? Usually he veers away from remembering him because he’s afraid of hurting Sam. It sucks because Riley was his friend too. The three of them went to high school together. Steve is pretty sure Sam wanted to join the football team specifically to hang out with Riley more than they already did. Like somehow being apart for an hour and a half practice would cause a huge rift in their lifelong friendship. Riley was really good at sports. So was Steve obviously but Riley actually liked football. Steve supposes back then he used to at least find the sport tolerable. That was before the culture of the fans really sunk in. Back then Steve enjoyed all the things he did with the team. Some of his brightest memories are of him, Sam, and Riley horsing around on busses on the way to games. Their team was really good so they got to go to far away games for state and nationals. Riley and Sam were a riot on their overnight stays. Steve misses Riley but he knows his relationship wasn’t as deep rooted as Sam’s. Sam knew Riley practically from birth.

                Steve tries to think of a neutral way of asking about Sam’s feelings without making him divulge anything too painful. “Do you talk about Riley a lot at your meetings?”

                “Sometimes.” Sam remains still and quiet. “I don’t talk much. I mostly listen to what the others have to say. Sometimes I feel a little bit out of place because some of the people there have been on some really hard stuff. You aren’t supposed to talk much about what you used or how much but you do get the sense of it anyway.”

                “Maybe it’s just because you’ve got counseling training?” Steve proposes.

                Sam smiles at him appreciatively. “I somehow doubt my six months of training to be a VA counselor has given me the ability to read minds.”

                “Well no, no it hasn’t. You had that ability already.” Steve jokes.

                “Oh okay, let me use my powers on you then.” Sam says with a challenging but playful tone. His mournful paralysis has evaporated for now. “You’re thinking  let’s stop talking about all this depressing bullshit and go for a run.”

                A single, joyous laugh bursts out of Steve. He leans back in his seat and covers his heart with his right hand. “Okay Sam, let’s go for a run.”

                “And afterward, wanna throw the ball around?” Sam asks hopefully. As yes football, Steve’s favorite thing under the sun. He keeps a ball under the bathroom sink and only takes it out when Sam comes to visit and insists on “throwing the ball around”.

                “Well...” Steve sighs, praying he sounds more sarcastic about it than he feels. “If I must.”

                “Good because I’ve got this idea for a sick play I wanna run by you.” Sam explains excitedly. He springs up and goes to get the ball. He knows where Steve keeps it and for some reason has never asked why it lives there. More of Sam’s tastefulness as far as Steve can tell.

                “Well since the last one you came up with went so well, why not?” Steve chuckles remembering how that went it practice.

                “I swear it would have been much better if you weren’t such a shitty quarterback.” Sam tosses the ball up and down as he practically jogs for the door. Steve is pretty sure they aren’t even going to jog. The jogging was just a ploy to get him to go to the park. Sly Sam strikes again.

                “Uh huh. I bet.” Steve shakes his head as he grabs his jacket and follows Sam.

.oOo.

                 Steve listlessly throws the ball to Sam for about the dozenth time. Sam keeps yelling “Go long!” which means Steve keeps throwing it further. Sam reminds him of a golden retriever right now. Sam’s arm is pretty good but Steve always ends up going about ten yards forward to catch the ball. This is exactly what he left California to avoid doing and here he is humoring his friend. He’s far enough away from Sam that at least he doesn’t have to pretend to be happy.

                 “Come on Steve!” Sam hollers at him. They started out in the middle of the field and have now migrated to the edge, Sam is almost in the trees. Once he gets there Steve is going to tell him it’s time for running. He’s played nice but he’s had enough.  “Throw me something impressive!”

                 “What’s ‘impressive’ is the amount of crap I put up with to be your friend.” Steve mumbles. He’ll put this in the trees. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll even lose the ball. He sends the ball sailing, he judges it will go about eighty or so yards. He’s one of few quarterbacks that can do that. Sam doesn’t try to catch this one. He watches the ball fly overhead like a mesmerized kid. Steve does have to admit, that makes him a little proud.

                 The ball pierces the tree line like a missile. A moment later the peaceful tranquility of the park is broken by and agonized wail the likes of which Steve has never heard before.

                 “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Someone screams as if mortally wounded. Steve jumps. Did he just kill someone?! What happened? Do they need help? Sam starts running in the direction of the scream at the same time as Steve does.

                 They crash through the trees in the direction of the sobbing. Whoever was hurt hasn’t stopped their passionate lament.

                 “No! No! No! No! What the fu-uck!” The man’s voice squeaks as he cries “fuck”. Steve hops over a small bush and rounds a tree. He spots Sam standing still in a little clearing. He looks utterly dumb struck. His mouth hangs open and his eyes bug out. Steve has never seen him look so alarmed. Steve follows his line of sight to a homeless man cradling a broken guitar on the ground. The neck has clearly been snapped off the body. It’s a silver electric guitar with a bunch of stickers on it and the letters “JB” written in red electric tape. The guy holding the guitar is wearing a baseball cap and a red Henley. He’s crying profusely. He clutches the neck of the guitar to his chest and runs his fingers over the slack metal strings. He slowly collapses backward against the tree.

                  Steve has seen this guitar before. Steve has seen that guitar in music videos, magazine covers, and in concert once. The man holding the guitar was there too.  The man holding the guitar is actually incredibly famous, maybe even more famous than Steve.

                  “Oh shit.” Sam enunciates in horror.

                  The man clutching the guitar, who Steve recognizes as the lead singer of Red Night, fixes his grey bedroom eyes on them. His mood goes from distraught to furious in half a second. He snarls at them and picks up Steve’s football. He chucks it gracelessly at Steve.

                  “Fucking peace of shit!” He screams. “Do you even fucking know!? Do you? Huh!?” James Barnes jerks his chin up in a defiant gesture of intent to fight. He gnashes his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth and tears off his hat in fury. He chucks that at Steve too. He seems to have rightly identified him as the culprit.

                  “Uh-actually I think I do.” He read once that that guitar was given to him by the person who taught him to play.

                  “No you fucking don’t!” James Barnes gets to his feet. He carefully deposits the injured guitar against the tree.

                  “I will pay whatever it takes to fix it, I swear.” Steve has no idea if can be fixed. He dearly hopes so. This man has made some great music with that guitar. James Barnes  stomps forward. Steve is not surprised when his left arm reels back.

                  He lets himself get punched. He saw it coming for sure. Honestly though, he owes this guy a punch in the face. Steve can’t imagine what this is like for him. Steve’s been punched plenty of times and always tried to avoid them. This time he doesn’t. Maybe a good punch is what he needs. The rest of his life is falling apart, why not his face to make it all complete?

                  The fist connects with scary force. Steve was not expecting him to be so strong. He hits him right between the bridge of the nose and the edge of his left orbital socket. Steve did not notice that he’s wearing two rings. A bright white light flashes behind the eye that gets punched. James Barnes follows through with his whole body. It’s a hell of a left hook.

                  Steve slips on the grass and falls over holding his face. His nose starts to bleed immediately. He’s pretty sure the rings broke the skin on his eyebrow too.

                  “Fuck you!” James Barnes spits at him. Then Steve is pretty sure he really does spit on him. Something wet and slimy hits the back of his hand where it holds his face. Sam is at his side in a flash.

                  “Hey, that’s enough it was an accident!” Sam interjects. Steve’s eyes are closed but he can feel the heat from Sam’s body as he leans over him, presumably shielding him from further attack.

                  “Yeah well your God damn accident just broke my favorite guitar! It’s irreplaceable and it will be a fucking miracle if it ever plays the same!” James Barnes screams at them. Steve hears him storm away on the wet grass. He hears some rustling which must be him picking up his backpack and sleeping bag.

                  “No wait!” Steve shouts. “Please let me pay for it, I feel terrible!”

                  “Tell you what.” James Barnes makes a noise that sounds like tongue being flicked against teeth. “Blow me, kiss my ass, and fuck off! Then _maybe_ we’ll call it even Shit Stain!”

                  Steve tries to open his eyes to look at him but by the time he can force the left one open a crack, James Barnes has disappeared into the trees.

                  Steve has no idea he just met the love of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND PERSONS OF OTHER GENDERS! Welcome to my house of horrors! Sit down, stay awhile. It’s going to be a hell of a ride. I’ve been stewing on this story since last summer and I have some crazy shit planned. Usually the amount of time I spend planning stories out is about a week, so this ought to be good. I’d like to thank my lovely tumblr followers who have encouraged me to release this beast out into the world. This is the longest “Chapter 1” I’ve ever written and I plan to keep the rest about this long. Plan on maybe 70 k? We’ll see. There is certainly a lot of subject matter to consider. 2003 was a crazy year. I’ve been doing my research since I wasn’t so aware of the exact events of the war at the time, I just knew we were in one. My cousin was in the Navy at this time, that was about my awareness. Thanks Justin, you have made our family very proud( Please let him never find this XD).  
> Uh disclaimers for this chapter… hmmm. I realize Steve says a lot of negative stuff about football fans but remember, that’s just his perception and is not a reflection of my opinion. Steve has had some really negative experiences (which I’ll tell you about later) that have influenced his opinion.  
> Next chapter: Steve and Sam process what the fuck just happened, we meet the other half of the cast(mostly), and Tony Stark proves he is a good guy. 
> 
> Resources for this chapter:
> 
> The Bombing of Baghdad:  
> http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2003/03/31/the-bombing-of-baghdad  
> http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/war-in-iraq-begins  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0kcaziP-0o
> 
> 9/11:  
> http://www.cnn.com/2013/10/30/world/meast/operation-iraqi-freedom-and-operation-new-dawn-fast-facts/  
> http://www.history.com/topics/9-11-attacks
> 
> Airline Security:  
> http://www.pbs.org/newshour/rundown/911-to-now-ways-we-have-changed/  
> http://www.forbes.com/sites/wheelsup/2010/07/20/advantages-of-flying-on-private-aircraft/#1064b489303b  
> Narcotics Anonymous:  
> https://www.na.org/?ID=literature
> 
> Billie Joe Armstrong/ James Barnes Biography:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billie_Joe_Armstrong


	2. Basket Case

              Steve and Sam exchange very few words as they make their way to the nearest emergency room. Steve is pretty sure his nose is not broken but the cuts on his face are going to require stitches. The emergency room they go to is one he has frequented since the days when Steve regularly got the crap beaten out of him. Steve is no stranger to waiting with an ice pack over his eye in a crowded room buzzing with the urgency of startling medical woes. Nobody recognizes him thanks to his hood and the ice pack. Sam fills out his admitting form for him.

              A few things about his encounter with James Barnes stand out to him more than others. First there is the absurdity of him, another celebrity, destroying a famous musician’s prized guitar. The likelihood of what just transpired is so small that if Sam had not been there, Steve would have assumed it was some kind of delusion. Aside from the astronomically small probability of it all, Steve is now responsible for destroying a piece of rock history. The guilt of this fact is slowly seeping into every cell in his body. He just ruined something precious and he has no way of setting it right. Sure there are other guitars of that model he could buy to replace it, but none of those guitars are Silver. That was its name! Steve had been trying to remember since the disaster happened. It’s named Silver and James Barnes usually refers to it as a ‘he’ in interviews. Steve watched a special about Red Night on MTV. It was super late and he couldn’t sleep for some reason, he doesn’t remember why. He wouldn’t consider himself a die-hard fan but he most certainly enjoys the band. His knowledge of trivia about them is just a product of his good memory for details. It’s one of his many quirks.

             Then of course there is the most daunting question of all, what the hell was James Barnes doing sleeping in a park? He looked greasy and unkempt like he hadn’t showered in days. He doesn’t remember if he smelled or not but Steve is willing to bet he did a little. His sleeping bag was wrapped in a tarp and did not look particularly thick. He didn’t have much for a homeless person. Usually they carry around a lot of stuff when they live exclusively on the streets. James Barnes might have a place to roost after all. There are varying degrees of homelessness. It’s possible he could be the kind that stays with friends when he needs to. Steve hopes so. He took James Barnes’ hat with him. He has it tucked into a pocket in his jacket. He hopes he’ll be able to give it back to him.

             “Do you think this is going to end up in the tabloids?” Sam asks as he selects one to read from the customary pile on the waiting room coffee table.

             “I dearly hope not.” Steve sighs. That is all he needs, the hatred of millions of Red Night fans on top of everything else. Hell at this rate if he comes out as gay, there won’t be anyone left unoffended. Steve’s cellphone rings, distracting him from his current predicament. He answers it without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”

             “ _Excuse me Steven, I believe you were going to call me yesterday evening_?” Peggy asks him. And he forgot to do that like a total moron. He can’t win today.

             “Hey! Peggy I’m sorry, things have been nuts. I came back to New York. Sam and I are in the emergency room. I’m getting stitches.” Steve presses the icepack harder to his injured face. It causes him an undeservingly low level of pain.

             “ _…Steve, why are you getting stitches_?” The British woman sighs like she expects this of him. She probably does.

             “I got into a very one sided fight with a homeless rock star. Wanna have brunch and talk about it?” Steve offers. He nudges Sam. “Brunch with Peggy?”

             “Yeah sure, I’m in.” Sam mutters as he flips through the pages of the newest sleaze magazine. Steve’s face is on the front cover of course.

             “ _Angie and I will meet you at the usual. How long until you think you can get there?”_

             Steve estimates with light traffic and stitches it won’t be that long. “Give me an hour and a half.”

             “ _This had better be good_.”

             “I wish it was half as interesting as it is.” Steve groans.

.oOo.

             Steve’s favorite expatriate and her fiancé stare at Steve as if his face is on inside out. Peggy’s right eyebrow arches exquisitely. Her perfectly rouged lips are slightly parted as she remains in a speechless state of confusion. Angie is little better. She is less shocked and more angry. A crease forms a deep gouge between her manicured brows. Her head is tipped to the side as she stares Steve down. The accusation in her glare is intolerable.

            “It’s not like I did it on purpose!” Steve exclaims and rests his face in his hands. He accidentally tweaks his stitches with his index finger. He jerks away from his hand and cringes.

            “Well you didn’t have to throw it into the trees.” Sam points out from where he sits to Steve’s left. Sam and Steve occupy one half of the private booth while the ladies occupy the other. They’ve gathered at their favorite diner which also happens to be Angie’s former place of employment.

            Steve tilts his head to give Sam a particularly acerbic glare. “You told me to go long.” He hisses at his friend.

            “What a shame.” Angie finally says with a shake of her head. She sips her coffee and adjusts the walky-talky clipped to her pocket. Angie is wearing her full police uniform. She is either about to go to work or she’s on break, Steve hasn’t had the chance to ask. The very second they sat down Peggy started demanding the details of his morning. Peggy is an FBI agent and Angie is NYPD. The two of them have succeeded in making Steve feel like he’s under arrest for guitar-slaughter.

            “So what’s your plan? You’ve got to do something to make up for it. How are you going to go about finding him?” Peggy asks concernedly. She is not a Red Night fan but she can appreciate the injustice that has been done.

            Steve shrugs dramatically. “I have no idea! I don’t know anything about finding people! All I know about him is that he’s the lead singer of this really great band and about fifty other pieces of random trivia! I don’t know where to go looking for him or how to contact him! I just ruined a big piece of his life completely out of nowhere and…” It didn’t look like he had a whole lot going on for him. Steve tries to remember what he saw. James Barnes had a backpack, a sleeping bag/tarp, and his guitar. Steve destroyed one of only three things he has. What kind of asshole does that make him? A disturbingly large lump forms in Steve’s throat. He just can’t do anything right can he? “He looked homeless, have I mentioned he looked homeless!?” Steve’s voice is unusually high pitched and watery. He turns so he doesn’t look at his friends while he wipes his eyes.

            “About three times.” Angie is more concerned than annoyed by Steve’s repetition. “I knew he was in the area but I didn’t know he’s living on the streets.”

            Steve blinks a couple of times as he realizes the implications of that. He turns to face her quickly. “Is he in some kind of trouble with the law?”

            Angie nods. “He used to be. He’s been paroled for a year now. It was a big deal at my precinct when he got arrested. That was a while ago but I still remember it. It’s not every day you arrest somebody that famous.”

            “What was he arrested for?” Steve asks curiously.

            “Possession with intent to distribute.” Angie shakes her head doubtfully. “But I think it was BS. His own manager turned him in. He was stoned out of his mind and had a small pharmacy in his pockets. He didn’t get the usual celebrity treatment either, he did time. Eighteen months up state I think.”

            “And now he’s homeless in Brooklyn.” Sam finishes while stirring his coffee.

            “With a broken guitar.” Peggy elaborates.

            Steve groans in remorse. Why couldn’t they have just gone running?! Why does football have to ruin everything in his life?!

            Sam pats his shoulder in solidarity. “It’s okay, we’ll find him somehow. He’s got to at least try to fix the guitar right? We could start by going to shops that fix them.”

            Steve perks up at the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea.” He could leave contact information with the shop so if James Barnes comes in to get Silver fixed they can bill Steve for the repairs. “Do you think this place has The Yellow Pages?” Steve looks up towards the front of the diner where the cash register is. No phonebook is visible but he’s willing to bet they have one.

            “They should, but I bet you I can point you in the right direction without it.” Angie waggles her finger at Steve. “There’s this one store I know that fixes guitars here in Brooklyn. They have a lot of really nice guitars inside so people try to break in all the time. One of the guys who owns the place is an ex-Green Beret. He usually calls the police after he’s kicked the shit out of the burglars. I guess they have to so they can claim the insurance money.”

            “That sounds promising… and disturbing.” Steve can’t help but smile a little. “If you give me the address I’ll go this afternoon. At the very least they can tell me other places to look.”

            Angie pulls out a pen and pad and starts writing him directions. As she’s writing it occurs to Steve that he’s been horribly rude this whole encounter.  Angie is wearing an elegant diamond ring on her left finger that matches the one on Peggy’s finger. It looks like the rings would fit together if one person were to wear them both.

            “Oh and congratulations!” He bursts before he lets another second tick by without having said it. The very thing that had devastated him less than twenty four hours ago hadn’t even occurred to him since this James Barnes nonsense began. At least there is one benefit to the insanity that has been this day, the other less dramatic but still disheartening events of his life now pale in comparison.

            “If your life wasn’t a colossal mess right now, you would be in so much shit Steve Rogers.” Peggy intones dangerously.

            “Hehe…” Steve chuckles then seals his lips closed before he screws up further. The mother-of-all-gift-baskets he owes her is going to need to have a twin with some diamond earrings in it at this rate.

.oOo.

             Sam goes to his counseling course, Peggy goes to meet with her wedding planner, and Angie goes back to work while Steve heads to the shop she told him about. It’s only a short walk from his old neighborhood. The area is just starting to be gentrified and fighting back against the change with everything it’s got. Numerous tags adorn remodeled buildings which eventually give way to older shops that were built in the eighties. Every shop has bars on their windows and none are without their share of graffiti. Fliers from events past flap in the wind where they remain partially adhered to telephone poles and storefront windows. Steve looks at the directions on his piece of paper every couple of seconds to make sure he’s going in the right direction. Pedestrians pass in groups. Very few people travel alone like Steve. He looks up from his directions when he spots someone who matches the rough physical description of James Barnes. He gets a little pang of disappointment every time it isn’t him.

             The Spider Man Haus of Music is exactly where Angie said it would be. The building takes up almost half a block. The store’s sign has an interesting arachnid thing climbing the neck of a guitar. It’s both creepy and cool at the same time. The front of the store is plastered with posters for rock concerts and festivals. The door is the only thing that is unbesmirched. The clean glass looks like it was replaced in the last month. The door has an ‘Open’ sign stuck to the inside. Under the large black letters, written in an urban style scrawl is “Welcome to the Jungle”. Steve smiles at the familiar phrase and can’t help but sing the first lines of the song in his head. He opens the door and steps inside.

             The smell of dusty storage rooms and pizza hits him at the same time as a plethora of sights and sounds. Over the speakers a song which might be by the Doors plays just loud enough to be unobtrusive to conversation. A train whistle from a miniature trainset blows as the tiny steam engine motors around a track along the walls. The little track sits atop racks lined with dozens of glossy guitars. The walls on either side of the store are covered with the stringed instruments. Further back the guitars give way to display cases with even fancier instruments inside. The display cases also contain music memorabilia. Filling the floor space are tables with boxes of records and racks of CDs. A few drum sets are set up and ready for playing. There is a small stage at one corner of the store where an amp and some speakers stand ready. The back wall seems to be the area where the workshop is located. Tools Steve assumes are for guitar maintenance and assembly lie scattered around a workbench. A couple of project guitars are sitting on stands waiting to be repaired. A doorway with a bead curtain connects the store to what must be the back room. The train disappears through a tunnel in the wall taking its artificial sounds with it. Now that that small racket has dissipated, Steve realizes there are voices coming from the back room. Steve carefully navigates the tables and racks to get back to the workshop area.

             The register sits on the the same bench as the tools. Next to the register is a silver bell. Steve rings it once and shoves his hands in his pockets. His left hand comes into contact with James Barnes’ hat. Steve flinches at the contact like he has offended the sacred object. He clenches that hand at his side instead. Steve’s eyes flitter over the display case behind the counter. This case holds mostly signed band merchandise.

             “Can I help you?” A friendly voice asks. Steve looks up and sees that the voice belongs to a sandy-toned brunette with glasses and a nose ring that looks like it belongs on a cow. He’s dressed in typical alternative style clothes. Steve’s hoping it’s not a coincidence he’s wearing a Red Night shirt.

             “Hi, um…” How does one just come out and say that he destroyed a famous guitar to a person who clearly likes said guitar? “This is going to sound utterly strange but you wouldn’t happen to have had James Barnes bring a guitar in to get fixed by chance?”

             The man slowly twirls a finger at the state of Steve’s face. “He fucked up your face real good didn’t he?”

             Steve decompresses as he exhales. The rush of relief from not having to explain this whole thing again is just indescribable. “Ugh, yeah he really did.” Steve rubs the back of his neck bashfully. “It was a freak accident and I am so, so sorry. Can it be repaired?” Steve prays to God it can be.

             Some harsh whispering and the sounds of physical confrontation come from the back room. The man holds his hand up to indicate a pause. He sticks his head back through the beaded curtain then promptly draws it back in fear. He backs away from the doorway as the same rock star Steve was trying to find bursts through the vintage door covering.

             “You!” He shrieks at Steve as if his very existence on earth is offensive.  James Barnes is less of a mess than he was earlier. He looks like he just got out of the shower. His hair is wet and limp against his jaw. He just shaved and apparently hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt. He stands there looking extremely confident in black, ripped jeans and unlaced combat boots with spikes on the toes. Steve is momentarily distracted by the expanse of tattooed bare torso on display. James Barnes has barbell piercings through his nipples. Steve doesn’t have time to gawk. One second James Barnes is behind the counter, the next he’s vaulting over it and making like he’s about to attack Steve again.

              “Wait!” Steve throws his hands up, this time he’s not going to let himself get decked. “I didn’t mean to break your guitar!”

               James Barnes snarls at him as he backs Steve up against a table. Steve keeps one arm up while the other goes behind him to catch himself against the edge. “Really? You expect me to believe you of all people pop up out of nowhere and fuck up the only thing I have left in this world and it’s all a coincidence? I don’t fuckin think so! Who sent you? Pierce? Schmitt? Those fuckers at the NYPD? Which was it Golden Boy? Because whoever it was, you can tell them to go fuck their sister because I’m not coming back!”

               Steve firmly puts a hand on James Barnes’ chest to stop him from pressing against him. “Please stop, I have no idea what you are saying right now!” Steve pleads.

               “Does Hydra even have people in football?” The man by the doorway asks skeptically.

               “Close enough!” James Barnes snorts defiantly. “They have people in the same company this monkey dances for!”

               “HEY!” Steve yells right back in the rock star’s face this time more feral than before. The blaring noise forces the aggressive man back a step. “I came here because I felt bad about taking something precious from you! I haven’t got a damn clue what you are talking about and I don’t want to!” Steve digs his wallet out of his pocket. He takes out a business card which has everything they’d need to contact him. The card is a remnant of a time when he had hoped to become a professional artist. He made a hundred of them for a project in his senior year at NYU. He has yet to give them all away in the five years since. He throws the card at James Barnes. “Here! If you for some reason feel like behaving like an adult, you can bill me for the damages. I’m a very good dancing monkey, I make a lot of money. I’m sure I can pay for whatever it costs!” 

                Steve turns on his heels and rushes out of the store. He goes just fast enough to get gone quickly without looking like he’s fleeing.

.oOo.

                His apartment building has a private gym in the basement. It’s very well outfitted and conveniently located for when Steve needs to get his head together. It’s one thing to feel like a joke, it’s another thing entirely to be called one. It doesn’t happen all that often. Normally people fawn over him. He doesn’t exactly enjoy that either but it’s better than having the way he feels inside thrown in his face. At least his friends have the decency not to bring up what he does for a living. Not talking about it is how he’s chosen to deal with the distress it causes him. Not only does football prevent him from publically embracing his sexuality, it also gives him no sense of pride in what he does.

                Steve has adjusted the tilt of the treadmill so that he’s running at a steep incline as fast as he can. The machine wheezes with every footfall. Steve breathes hard, working his lungs to their full capacity. Sweat dampens his shirt under his arms, on his chest, and down his back. He’s been running like this for thirty minutes and it still hasn’t made a dent in his foul mood.

                What does his job do for the world? It entertains yes, but it celebrates everything that is wrong with American culture. The players fans idolize are arrogant, entitled, violent, and rarely apologetic for these traits. Other sports are like this but none of them are quite like football. No other sport elevates it’s players to such a god-like status. All Steve does is play a game and people treat him like he’s some kind of a genius. He throws a ball, avoids being tackled, and listens to what his coach says. All the bullshit about instinct and drive is just talk. Steve has been playing for over ten years, he’s seen every play, dealt with every type of player, overcome every challenge the game poses. All he has to do is correctly decide what to do based on what has worked or hasn’t in the past. Usually it takes him only a second to decide. There is no thought process, he just does it and hopes it turns out okay. When all is said and done, Steve physically abuses himself and other players so spectators can enjoy politically correct violence. If what he and his teammates do in a game happened outside the field they’d be arrested for aggravated assault. That’s what his sport celebrates. The better you are at hitting and getting hit the more you are worshiped. He’s seen men hurt so badly they’ll probably never recover from their injuries. Those same injuries get analyzed frame by frame on the nightly sports show _for entertainment_! Montages of spectacular hits are just compilations of pain. People actually laugh and cheer when an opposing player gets tackled hard, never mind the damage he might have suffered. And for what? Entertainment? Money? Fame?

                Steve jumps a foot in the air to grab the chin up bar. He hoists himself up aggressively with sweat pouring down his face. He shifts his grip to work out different muscle groups in his shoulders once one gets fatigued. He grits his teeth when the strain becomes particularly intense but does not stop. He pushes himself way harder than his trainers usually do. He doesn’t care if he can’t move tomorrow. Sometimes he just wants to suffer.

                There are so many other wonderful things that Steve wishes people valued instead of what he does. If people got as passionate about philanthropy as they do about a damn sport the world would be a much better place. Not everybody can give their time and money like he can, he knows that he’s one of a privileged few. The fact he did not work very hard to become such is all the more aggravating. Before he became the way he is he used to take refuge from his troubles in his drawings. Art has always been Steve’s great outlet. He enjoys all forms of it and likes to spend long hours in his studio when he’s able. It makes him feel like he’s creating rather than repressing. You don’t have to be rich to enjoy a hobby. He’s pretty sure football merchandise and fancy sports TV bundles cost far more than art supplies. When his friends used to hold tailgating parties they’d spend hundreds on food. Steve just doesn’t understand how that is feasible for those who can barely feed their families. He knows millions of his fans live below the poverty line despite working sixty hours a week. Thinking about how little he does compared to how much he’s given keeps him up at night. When he’s not in practice or taking a break like he is now, he tries to repent. Steve’s charity work takes up the greater portion of his time during the off season. He attends galas, gives speeches, endorses products, anything he feels is worth promoting he contributes to with everything he can spare.

                Steve does sit-ups hanging from the chin-up bar. He has a weight strapped around his chest to make each rep more difficult to do. The extra fifteen pounds on his chest is a nice literal representation of the weight he carries around all the time. And what does that weight do for him? It wins him the title of “Best Chest” according to Men’s Health.

                James Barnes is right. He is a dancing monkey. Everything he does with his money is always going to be tarnished by what people think he stands for. Sure he may comfort some dying children but they don’t want to meet him because he’s giving, they want to meet him because he’s a champion. It didn’t matter that he was there to try and do the right thing today, James Barnes still rejected his help. Steve can’t make sense of what the rock star thought was going on but he’s fairly sure James Barnes refused any kind of compensation because of the way he perceives him. He thinks he’s a narrow minded, thoughtless do-gooder. He probably thinks he looks down on him. Steve doesn’t look down on him, he envies him. James Barnes has never had to hide the way he feels.

.oOo.

                Steve collapses onto his couch. His muscles ping from exertion. He could have done more if he’d taken it easier but that would have been against the point. He stares at the ceiling and tries not to think for a moment. It doesn’t work.

                What is he going to do with himself? This way of life is so unsustainable. On one hand he doesn’t want to subject himself to the hatred of millions, let down the charities that depend on him, or disappoint the teammates he does like. On the other, he can’t continue being this unhappy. He has to do something or else he knows how this is going to end. If he could just work out a way to quietly step out of the spotlight and continue to make money, he would have a chance. It would be a nearly impossible transition to make but he’s got to try something.

                Steve gets up as quickly as he is able and drags himself to his art room. The pages of information about NA are still spread all over the ground. He flops down onto the ground and starts sorting through them until he finds the one he is looking for. The page has on it the twelve steps to recovery outlined and explained. The first step is pretty simple.

  1. **We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable.**



                 Okay. He’s powerless. There is no solution to his problems and it is going to take an act of divine intervention for him to come out of this better than he is now. Step one complete.

  1. **We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.**



                 This one is not so simple. Steve has a lot of feelings about God and his relation to Him. He was raised Catholic but he’s not sure if he can be Catholic and be what he is. He hasn’t talked to anyone about it because doing so would mean outing himself or making it blatantly obvious that he is gay. He hasn’t talked to his mother because he’s never felt comfortable questioning faith in front of her.

                 Steve needs someone to talk to if he’s going to do this. Someone who is unbiased and experienced would be preferred. He can’t really talk to Sam like he normally would because Sam is trying to deal with his own problems. Steve doesn’t want to trivialize what Sam is going through by putting the focus on himself. He’s not like Sam, he doesn’t have a true addiction.

                 He needs guidance and he has an idea about where to go.

.oOo.

The next night…

                 This seemed like a much better idea with a shit ton of adrenaline and angry thoughts in his head. Steve nervously stirs his coffee next to the table covered in inexpensive snacks waiting for the meeting to start. He did it, he found himself a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and showed up. It’s an open meeting where non addicts can come and sit in if they want to. Steve doesn’t get to share according to the literature he’s read. There should be no pressure whatsoever and yet he feels like he’s a hundred feet under water.

                 People who know each other quietly talk in little circles, none of them have approached him although several of them have shot him curious or accusatory glances. It’s not the usual reaction by a long shot but he expected that from this crowd. He’s willing to bet he makes more in one year than these people will in a lifetime. The class difference alone would be enough but on top of that he’s famous and white in a mostly black neighborhood. He’s in Bed-Stuy tonight for the first time since he got home. He kind of hoped the familiar territory would make this easier but so far it’s been no help. He did find the physical location a little easier but that was about it.

                He did not realize he grabbed his damn Gucci jacket when he ran out the door. What kind of asshole shows up to an NA meeting wearing a fifteen hundred dollar jacket? A big shot NFL star that doesn’t belong there, obviously. People like him go to private treatment facilities for drug rehab, not NA. But where is he supposed to go? Do they even have support groups for what he needs support for? Not lying about being gay is a strangely specific problem. He should probably get a therapist.

                While Steve stews in his feelings and thoughts, the door to the community meeting hall swings open and a familiar face saunters inside. Steve looks up from his thoroughly mixed coffee for just a second then does a double take.

                No fucking way. It’s goddamn James Barnes! This time he’s not freaking out about the oddity of meeting another celebrity in Brooklyn. Now he’s just shocked that he could run into the same man three times entirely by chance in less than two days.

                “You!” Steve exclaims in almost the exact same way James Barnes did the afternoon before. James Barnes is just as startled to see Steve. This time he’s the one caught off guard by Steve’s presence. He scans Steve up and down and shifts his weight backward like he’s about to bolt. The shock fades fast as he settles into apprehension.

                “What do you want?” James Barnes asks surprisingly quietly. Steve has to focus to hear him.

                It occurs to Steve that they are surrounded by men and women in varying stages of recovery from serious drug addiction. More likely than not, somebody in the room would be disturbed by the two of them making a big, loud scene. James Barnes is likely trying to protect the people at the meeting. He cares about these people which must mean he is capable of sympathy. Maybe if Steve just explains that he’s here for help understanding, this won’t end in him having to leave.

               “Look, I’m just trying to get some insight into Step 2. If whatever is going on between you and me could wait until after the meeting is over, that would be great.” Steve huffs.

                James Barnes does not look like he wants to wait until the meeting is over. There is a guy standing in a corner wearing an eyepatch with a hook for a hand and a swastika carved on his forehead. That guy is more welcoming than the man in front of him glaring at Steve like he’s unbearable.

               “This is the third time you’ve found me in two days and you expect me to believe this is unintentional?” James Barnes asks in a voice barely discernable from a hiss.

               “Trust me, I think this is pretty weird too.” Steve puffs. He squares his shoulders and puts his hands on his hips. “But I’m here for the meeting and I don’t give a damn what you think about me, I’m staying. I’m here for help and I’m not leaving until I’m at least on the path to getting it.”

                James Barnes narrows his eyes. He raises the left arch of his upper lip in disgust or maybe just disbelief. He seems to reexamine Steve from the feet up. James pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue while he appraises Steve. His body language goes from defensive to confident as he draws his new conclusions.

                “Okay…” James Barnes finally says. “Well good luck with that.” He doesn’t sound sincere but it’s better than a fist in the face, Steve supposes. James Barnes averts his eyes from Steve and tries to shoulder past him in one final gesture of dominance. The rock star quickly discovers that the body he just tried to move is planted on the spot like a pipe in concrete. James Barnes grabs his shoulder and bares his teeth at Steve like it’s somehow his fault.

                Something about his attitude has Steve speaking before his head has caught up. “Excuse you.” Steve says reflexively. Sassing is probably not the right move after finally coming to a truce. James Barnes tilts his head dangerously.

                “Look, I don’t know how much clearer you want me to be! I don’t like you! I don’t like your sunny America’s sweetheart thing and you broke my fucking guitar!” He declares for the whole room to hear. Steve may have misinterpreted how mindful he is of others. “Stay. Away. From. Me.” James Barnes spells out clearly for him.

                Before James Barnes can leave the conversation, Steve opens his damn mouth again. “I liked you a lot better on your albums.” He says before he can think better of getting in a fight with a fellow celebrity AGAIN. With this many witnesses, it would be on every tabloid in America.

                James Barnes snorts contemptuously at him. “You mean when I was singing about broken relationships, the scum of society, and the apathy of youth?” He asks him like Steve’s a fucking idiot.

               “Yeah, way more pleasant than this.” Steve snaps back without missing a beat.

               James Barnes stares at him like if he does it hard enough, a hole will form in Steve’s forehead. He licks his upper teeth as he takes a step into Steve’s space like he’s about to push him. “Fucking punk.” James Barnes hisses.

               “Jerk.” Steve retorts fearlessly.

               “Is there a problem here?” A black woman about their age asks them. Steve and James Barnes both jump when her voice interrupts their posturing. She looks between them with concern. “Because if there’s a problem, you’re both going to have to leave.” She points out.

               “No.” Steve takes a breath. “It’s over. We’re done.” He steps away from James Barnes at the same time the rock star retreats to the snack table. James Barnes gives a casual wave to the woman that interrupted them. She follows him over to the food table where he begins stuffing his pockets with food. They speak in hushed tones that don’t carry to Steve. He chooses a chair to sit in instead of attempting to eavesdrop.

               He just has to get through this meeting then he’ll quietly ask for information on where a different open meeting is held. He doesn’t want to force James Barnes away from where he goes to NA even if he is an ass.

               The woman talking to James Barnes comes back to the circle of chairs and sits down.

               “Alright I think we’re going to get started so if everyone could take a seat that would be appreciated.”

               Steve sits awkwardly while everyone joins him in the circle. He tries not to make eye contact with anyone and be as unobtrusive as possible. He was probably not supposed to sit in the circle if he’s not an addict. Shit, how could he have screwed up this badly already? The woman glances around the room then stops when she sees something she feels the need to roll her eyes at. Steve follows her gaze to James Barnes who is now glaring at Steve venomously. They happen to have sat almost exactly opposite from each other. It’s going to be very hard to avoid accidental eye contact. Steve focuses on his hands. He should probably just leave, this is ridiculous.

              “Let’s begin the prayer.” The woman leading them prompts.

              Steve came prepared for this. He fishes out a piece of paper he wrote the serenity prayer down on. He reads it as the others recite or mumble along.

**“God, grant me the serenity,**

**to accept the things I cannot change,**

**the courage to change the things that I can,**

**and the wisdom to know the difference.”**

               Steve worries his lip against his teeth as he considers the meaning of the prayer once more. It’s very applicable to him.

              “Okay everybody.” The woman says as she settles in. She adjusts her long skirt and crosses her legs. She flips a few braids over her shoulder and sniffs like she has allergies. “I see a few people I don’t know, if this is your first meeting then I’d like to personally welcome you to our program. My name is Gamora and I’ve been coming to this group for six years. Before that I lived in the Bronx and went to meetings there. I’ve been a speaker for the last three years but I don’t plan on giving a talk tonight.” She smiles for the first time since Steve has met her. “One of my babies fed the dog his poop again. My stomach still hasn’t settled from cleaning up after the dog.” The people in the circle chuckle compassionately. “So tonight let’s just go around the circle and say what it is we are thankful for. I’ll go first since I already kinda started.” She scratches her cheek then pauses and waves. “Hi, my name is Gamora and I am an addict.”

              “Hey Gamora.” The group greets with more sincerity than Steve was expecting. He glances up at James Barnes. The rock star’s usual ‘too cool’ vibe is completely gone. He sits cross-legged on his folding chair holding his feet while his knees shake with energy. He doesn’t seem anxious, just excited. The rock star fidgets with his mouth too. His tongue swipes over his upper lip before he pulls it between his teeth and nibbles. It’s hard to look away from. 

              “I am thankful that Peter just got approved for parole.” Gamora announces. James Barnes whoops with delight. He seems like he’s going to get up and hug her but he restrains himself. “He’s coming home in two months which will be great. My kids miss him and I miss him too.” She gestures to the person next to her. “Take it away.” She tells him.

              There are twelve people in the circle. Steve is the third to introduce himself after Gamora. When it’s his turn to speak, at first he thinks they are going to pass over him because he’s not a member or an addict but then Gamora gives him an encouraging nod.

              “It’s alright. Everybody is sharing tonight.”

              Steve refocuses on his hands so that he doesn’t have to look at anyone. He didn’t want to do this. He is not like them, he shouldn’t distract from their recovery, from their real addictions. This was such a shitty idea. He swallows before forcing himself to begin. “Hi, my name is Steve and I don’t know if I’m an addict or not.” The group is slower to react with ‘Hey Steve’ because of his failure to admit his addict status. If they only knew.  “I came here because I was trying to help a friend and then I realized what I’m going through isn’t all that different from what he’s going through.” Steve makes a noise that is neither a groan, a growl, or a sigh. “I mean, I know I’m not going through what he’s dealing with! I just don’t know where else to go for help with this. I don’t have anyone I can trust that I’m not worried I’ll alienate because of my problem.” Steve stops himself before he starts ranting. “Sorry, that wasn’t what I was supposed to talk about. I’m thankful that I don’t have to play on Sunday.”

             “Steve.” Gamora interjects. “If you have something you need to say, you’re welcome to say it if you think it will help you. Nobody is here for the exact same reason, you don’t have to be ashamed of being different.”

             Steve steels his resolve. He can at least say why he’s here tonight, he already did once to James Barnes. “I came here to ask about how I’m supposed to forgive God…” That was a slightly more revolutionary turn of phrase than he had intended. Yes he is angry because of all the elements of his situation which he cannot control. The one responsible for what he cannot control is God, so logically he must be angry with God. It makes sense but he hadn’t thought of it that way until now. The group does not look surprised by his accidental discovery. He keeps going because it seems like he’s making sense despite himself. “Because I’m trying to recover but I don’t know how to put my faith in something I’m so angry with.”

             Steve looks up from his hands and of course the first face he fixes on is James Barnes. His lips are slightly parted as he stares at Steve like he’s seeing someone totally alien from the person he expected Steve to be.

             “Why don’t you stay after the meeting today and we’ll talk?” Gamora offers.

              Steve doesn’t look at her as he keeps his focus on James Barnes. “Thanks, I’d appreciate it.” Steve says reflexively. The rock star turns his head away a moment later. He looks almost embarrassed.  

              They go through several other introductions and short stories until it’s James Barnes turn to share. Since Steve began talking he’s become much more somber. “What am I thankful for?” James Barnes’ whole body moves as he inhales. “I know where I’m sleeping tonight for the first time in a week. Gamora is letting me stay at her place. Yay!” He holds has hands up to shoulder level and waves them in a failed parody of excitement. Steve is sure he really is excited. “Her fold out bed is one step up from sleeping on concrete but beggars can’t be choosers.” He throws Gamora an appreciative wink. His tongue barely peeks out at the corner of his mouth as he messes with his lips again. “It’s great that I’m indoors tonight because...” His mouth twitches a little on one side, his fingers pick at an unraveling thread on his jacket sleeve. “The people who are after me are real close now. I swear I see them following me all of the time. Sometimes I wonder if I’m finally going nuts but then the boot drops and it turns out I’m right.” He raises an eyebrow. “So I guess I’m thankful I’m not crazy, I just wish the thing I’m paranoid about was a little less sinister.” James Barnes cuts his eyes to Steve and then away in a flash. “Oh and my guitar is going to be okay. The neck of it comes unbolted so I’ve got a replacement one until Spidey finishes gluing Silver’s real neck back together. He says it will be fixed in a couple of days.”

             Steve can’t stop the little gasp of joy he emits. His eyes sting and the back of his throat aches. He didn’t ruin Silver after all! After the way James Barnes treated him early he was sure that was the case. James Barnes blinks a couple of times as he watches Steve with a conflicted expression. Steve rubs his throat and smiles apologetically at the man. He stays quiet hoping he hasn’t been too disruptive.

             James Barnes tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and folds his lips inward. He shrugs unenthusiastically. “That’s it I guess.”

            Steve carefully avoids letting James Barnes see him looking at him while the next group members speak. When Steve intentionally focuses elsewhere, James Barnes takes his turn watching him back.

.oOo.

            Gamora tells Steve to wait for her outside while she talks to a member she sponsors. He drinks another coffee as he leans against the side of the brick building. He waits patiently for the speaker and mulls over what he heard. James Barnes leaves with reused grocery bags full of the leftover snacks in his hands. He doesn’t seem to notice his presence at all. Steve watches him go because there isn’t much else to do. The fifteen minute long game of eye-tag still hasn’t satisfactorily answered why Steve finds him so fascinating. There are so many things that could be cause for his attraction to him-including sexual attraction- that it’s hard to catalogue them all. Steve will put down “great thighs” on the list after observing him pop his left hip while waiting at the traffic light.

            James Barnes is crossing the street when suddenly he tenses all over. A black sedan speeds up while driving straight towards him. It runs the tail end of the light to get to him. Honking blares at the intersection. Steve flinches as it becomes obvious the sedan is about to go up on the curb. James Barnes drops his bags and sprints. Steve watches as the driver, a stalky man with frosted tips in his spiked hair, and a passenger, bigger and athletic with a shaved head, bail out of the sedan and chase after James Barnes. Both men wear suits but they don’t match or bare any signs of being law enforcement.

            Steve drops his coffee and gives chase.

            Logically this choice of action is no good. James Barnes could be in trouble with the CIA or FBI or whoever it is that goes around in unmarked black sedans. He doesn’t know the man that well. He’s still calling him by his full stage name in his head for Christ’s sake! He’s not even sure if ‘James Barnes’ is his actual name and yet here Steve is, running 8 meters per second after these shifty looking men chasing a rock star he’s pretty sure hates him. They have a full block’s lead on him too. He runs the 40 yard dash in 4.6 seconds but catching these guys is about more than just speed.

            James Barnes runs down the thinnest, dirtiest, darkest alleyways he can find, throwing trash cans and anything else available in his assailant’s way. Steve runs behind them, gaining on them fast. He hurdles over the obstacles the men in suits run around. Steve’s breathing stays flat and unlabored but he can tell the men he’s chasing are starting to get winded. They’ve run six blocks. James Barnes darts out of the alley ahead of them and nearly gets hit by a car. He barely avoids it then rolls across the hood of the car that almost hit him. Whoever these people are, he really does not want to be caught by them. The rock star lost two seconds because of the car. The two men in suits are right on his ass. They take a sharp turn down an alley and Steve loses visual. He doubles down and charges forward, not liking the chances of that alley having an ungated exit.

            He pivots around the corner on a dime and immediately spots what he feared. James is still running from his pursuers but there is a ten foot fence blocking his way to freedom. James keeps looking over his shoulder, he looks absolutely terrified of the men coming after him. This must be related to what he was ranting about in the music store. The men chasing him yell at him in a foreign language. Steve is so light on his feet, neither of them notice his presence until he’s right behind them. He instinctively tackles the one closest to him. The bigger man with the shaved head goes down with a smack against the concrete. Steve uses the other man’s body to avoid damaging himself on the hard surface. He’s pretty sure he just skinned his arms and hands anyway. The smaller guy comes to a halt when he realizes his partner is down. He stares at Steve for a split second. Maybe he recognizes him or maybe he’s just shocked that Steve came out of nowhere. Frosted Tips stops hesitating after a heartbeat and pulls a gun out from inside his jacket.

            Steve should have seen this coming. How could he be so stupid? He’s going to get shot. He’s going to be killed in an alleyway in Brooklyn while absolutely miserable. He hasn’t had a single relationship since Peggy, he still hasn’t come out to anyone but his mother and Coach, and he hasn’t had sex in three years(and that last time was just sad). He’s going to die a practically born again virgin having never been with anyone of the gender he prefers. He also didn’t get around to ending child poverty, saving the seals, and finding the cure for diabetes. Though to be honest he did a better job of taking care of the world than he ever did himself. They’ll probably televise his funeral. Memorial songs sung by musicians that have never met him will be interrupted by toothpaste commercials. Elton John might sing at his funeral, wouldn’t that be ironic?

            Then James Barnes hits Frosted Tips with the same vicious left hook Steve experienced yesterday morning. James Barnes screams at the battered man and kicks the one under Steve in the face. Steve slaps the gun out of the reeling man’s hand. Frosted Tips accidentally fires a bullet that embeds in a brick wall. Steve’s ears hurt but he’s got so much adrenaline he ignores the temporary deafness.  Steve pivots on his right knee and kicks Frosted Tips so hard he falls over. Once he’s down Steve delivers his own swift punch to the man’s nose. He hears the distinct crack of bone breaking and instantly regrets using his full force. Then again, this guy almost made his mother bury her only son. When he takes that into account he realizes he’s completely justified. Fuck this guy he’s not going to have Celine Dion sing about his heart. James Barnes kicks the unconscious man that was tackled again. Steve thinks that the bigger one hit his head when he went down. The two hard kicks probably didn’t help the concussion he’s bound to have.

            “You okay?!” Steve yells unnecessarily loudly to James Barnes. He can barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears. James Barnes huffs to catch his breath, he has a few tears in his eyes. Steve hopes they are tears of relief. James Barnes fixes his attention on Steve more intensely than he has all night. A flickering bulb next to a rear exit door illuminates his face in the darkness. His features are so open now compared to just an hour ago. His eyes seem enormous and sad while still being so full of life. Steve feels an odd tightness in his chest in response to the searching way this man gazes at him. He’s so baffled, like no one has ever helped him before in his life. As the seconds tick by, the smallest crease forms between his brows. Worry? Suspicion? Lower back pain? Steve doesn’t know what James Barnes is feeling but with his jaw slack like this he looks younger and even boyish. He’s absolutely beautiful Steve’s traitorous brain supplies. James Barnes keeps looking at him. He looks like he wants to ask Steve why he did this. Steve hopes he doesn’t ask because Steve wouldn’t have a good answer to give. It was an impulse, like a dog chasing a car. Steve saw trouble so he pursued. He pursued eight blocks then beat two men senseless in defense of a guy that has been equal parts a terror and a victim in their short acquaintance.

             James Barnes reaches forward and puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. The tightness in Steve’s chest gets worse. James Barnes says something but Steve is still pretty deafened. The world still sounds like it’s underwater. At least now the pressure in his chest is from some other emotion besides stress. Steve points at his ears and shakes his head. His hearing is slowly coming back so he’s pretty sure he’s going to be okay. James Barnes points out of the alleyway and pushes on his shoulder. He wants them to go. Steve stands up and nods. The rock star keeps throwing glances at him as they walk side by side. His earlier efforts to hide his interest have given way to the need to catalogue his every feature. When they get to the exit of the alley Steve points back in the direction of where the chase began. James Barnes shakes his head and gestures for Steve to follow him. Steve stays stuck in place as he studies James Barnes, he might already be in trouble just from helping him evade those two creeps. Who knows what he could be involving himself in? He’s already got one scandal on his hands, he doesn’t need any more drama. Steve isn’t sure what he just witnessed( prevented?) but based on what James Barnes and Angie have told him, he’s sure it’s dramatic.

             James Barnes realizes Steve isn’t following and stops. He bites his lower lip in a subtle pout. His gaze glides all over Steve. Steve doesn’t think he’s checking him out just…searching for whatever it is he’s looking for. Steve kind of hopes he finds it.

             James Barnes tightens his jaw and exhales. “Look, I think he recognized you.” Steve is grateful he can hear him again. “If he did, that could make problems for you.”

             So he’s already in it whatever it is. That is both horrible and fantastic. It’s horrible because who knows where this is headed and it’s fantastic because now he has no excuse not to follow James Barnes. The tightness in his chest really wants to follow James Barnes. His feet carry him back to the rock star’s side.

            “Alright James Barnes, what have you got me into?” He asks.

            “First off: No more ‘James Barnes’ bullshit, my friends call me Bucky.” Bucky explains with a warm smile in his eyes.

            “We’re friends now?” Steve chuckles quietly. He watches the sidewalk pass under their moving feet.

            “Dude you just saved my ass from being drugged, exploited, and maybe even killed. You better believe we’re friends!” Bucky laughs. He laughs. Steve’s stomach feels like it just dove off a cliff because James-Bucky was almost just snatched and Bucky is laughing about it. What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

            “Is that normal for you?” Steve asks more urgently than he intended. His usual high levels of protectiveness feel exceptionally high tonight.

            “It happens every now and then. It’s been awhile.” Bucky nudges him with his shoulder. “Hey I’m not always such an asshole, I thought you were with those guys. Yah see?”

            “No, not really.” Steve is still caught up in how warm his shoulder felt.

            “Well you did break Silver too, that did not help your case. You still owe me for that by the way.” Bucky is apparently chatty. Steve has no idea where he’s following him to and the rock star doesn’t show signs of explaining.

            “Where are we going?” Steve asks.

            “Somewhere warm where we can talk. You do like pasta right?” Bucky checks.

            “I love pasta.” Steve confirms for him. Who doesn’t love pasta? Nazis?

            “Good because I’m going to treat you to sausage flavored, oral orgasms like you’ve never had!” Bucky declares and points for them to cross the street.

            Steve snorts unattractively, feeling…the realization of what he’s feeling puts a lump in his throat that makes all the others he’s had today feel like a tickle. The cheeky, lopsided smirk Bucky flashes him makes the feeling grow even stronger. He’s happy. He’s actually experiencing non-obligatory happiness.

            “Oh by the way I make gay sex jokes frequently so if that’s a problem…” Bucky shrugs, totally unrepentant. “Deal with it, I guess?”

            Steve’s smile stretches impossibly wider. “Hey, as long as you buy me dinner first.”

            Bucky is at first shocked by Steve's play on his joke and then thoroughly amused. Steve holds his sides as he laughs at the look on Bucky's face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have the time to listen to me whine? I listened to some recordings of NA speakers and cried for about two hours. That didn't take too long! 
> 
> For those of you who have been following me around for awhile, you might be excited to know yesterday was my final class of my undergraduate studies (HAZA!). I graduate in fourteen days with my BA in Psychology. I took my MFT yesterday and scored in the 94th percentile. I'm still sort of in shock about that one. Now if only I was going to grad school for psychology and that would actually mean something! XD 
> 
> Check out the new banner at the beginning of the first chapter! I did some art because I wanted to draw Bucky with nipple piercings. It's not so obvious in the picture but Steve is naked so there is that.
> 
> Uhhhhh.... Tony didn't happen this chapter as I had planned that's coming up nextish. Speaking of Tony... god dammit Tony. I saw Civil War on Thursday. Obviously I will not spoil anything with this story because it's an AU so no worries on that front. If you feel like chatting about it, hit me up on my tumblr. http://thenotorioustrollop.tumblr.com/
> 
> Please comment, kudo, subscribe, bookmark, whatever! This is my baby and I really want it to be the new gem in my works page. I've changed up so much of how I write to produce this thing and the support really, really means a lot to me. The more comments and kudos the more people will read! 
> 
> -The Trollop


	3. Chapter 3

              The restaurant is owned by a small Frenchman named Jacques Dernier. He is the only one outside of the kitchen that is still at the restaurant at this hour. Bucky walks in and immediately greets the man with a big hug and rapid fire French. Dernier doesn’t speak a lick of English Bucky informs Steve as they sit down. The owner gives them water but no menus to Steve’s surprise.

              “I take it you must come here often.” Steve notes as he messes with his hands on the table top.

              Bucky brushes it off. “Yeah, I played at Jacques’ son’s bar mitzvah last year so he gives me anything I want for free. The food is top notch so I come here every week or so.”

              “Must have been a pretty sweet bar mitzvah.” Steve comments.

              Bucky smirks and wiggles an eyebrow. “His son is the coolest person ever to be president of French Club.”

              “I believe it!” Steve chuckles. There he goes again with the need to laugh whenever this man makes a joke.

              Bucky unrolls the silverware out of his napkin and begins folding the napkin into strange shapes. “So before I tell you about the screws loose in my life I gotta ask, what did God ever do to you?”

              Steve isn’t quite sure where to begin on the laundry list of little indecency’s the universe has thrust upon him throughout his life. Many of them would give away information he does not want to disclose outright. “It probably started with being born sick. Have you heard about my medical history?” He asks because that seems like a good way to talk about something that isn’t going to inevitably lead to something uncomfortable.

              “Little bit.” James Barnes glances from the napkin to Steve. “You were real small when you were young.”

              “Yeah! Two standard deviations below normal height!” Steve explains. Bucky’s brow furrows in confusion. “Uh, basically take all the differences in height from the average height of a kid that age and find the average difference. That’s the standard deviation. Ninety five percent of the population falls between two standard deviations of the average. When I was five years old I was part of the bottom two and a half percent which is considered pathological.”

              “So you were really, really small.” Bucky clarifies, he seems like he’s keeping up now that Steve’s explained the statistics.

              “Yeah, tiny.” Steve nods. “I had complications because of it. Even though almost everything was proportional, I wasn’t healing normally or growing hardly at all.”

              “Almost everything?” Bucky raises an eyebrow interestedly. “What does that mean?”

              Steve leans forward as if he’s about to tell him something really salacious. “I had an _enormous_ liver.” He whispers as if it was private.

              Bucky rolls his eyes and snorts at him. “Wow that was not nearly as exciting as I was hoping. So what happened to you?” He gestures to Steve’s current physique.

              “My mom is a nurse so she asked the specialists at the hospital she works at to look at me. They realized whatever was going on was really weird and sent me to a specialist who then sent me to another specialist. Eventually I ended up seeing a doctor named Abraham Erskine at John Hopkins. He diagnosed me with Kowarski syndrome and started me on a custom growth hormone supplement plan. It took a few years to figure out exactly how much to give me and the amount has fluctuated as I’ve gotten older but I’ve been pretty much normal since high school.”

              “And by normal you mean super human.”

              Steve shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware. The dose of HGH that I get from my implant keeps me at about the same level of HGH as a regular person my size with my level of activity. My levels seem really high but that’s because the HGH my body makes can’t be used.” Bucky continues to keep unwavering eye contact with him. He genuinely seems interested in Steve’s bizarre medical condition.  “The reason I look like I do is because I train rigorously six days a week for six months out of the year. It’s more complicated than that but that’s the gist.”

              “Huh.” Bucky sits back as Dernier drops off their food. He made them a huge lasagna to spilt. This thing must have been cooking for at least an hour. Maybe he cooks special lasagna to give to his favorite customers when they stop by?

              “Wow!” Steve remarks when he sees the food. “This is incredible.”

              “Thank you very much! Enjoy!” Dernier pronounces phonetically. That might be the only thing he knows how to say in English. The owner disappears leaving Steve and Bucky alone in the restaurant.

              Bucky cuts a square out and plops it on his plate. Some of the cheese stretches into long tendrils between the lasagna and the amputated slice. Bucky uses his fork to sever the cheese wisps then plunges it into his lasagna.

              Steve takes his own piece with a slightly burnt edge. The crispy edge crackles as he hoists it away from the pan. He sets it down and immediately forks a bite into his mouth. Bucky was right, this stuff is mouth orgasm inducing. Steve tries to moan quietly. Bucky is much less restrained about his sub-linguistic vocalizations. Bucky croons around his food as he licks his lips. He closes his eyes and focuses on the flavor. He sounds perfectly pornographic.

              The noise coming from the undeniably attractive rock star elicits an unwanted response from Steve’s nether regions. His pants grow tighter around the inseam as his cock firms up. He gets turned on far too fucking easily. This is honestly saddening, not to mention humiliating.

              “Was that entirely involuntary or are you in heat?” Steve asks which quickly earns him another barely contained snort from Bucky. The rock star tries to swallow his food as fast as possible so he can retort.

              “You were warned.”

              “About sex jokes, not whatever that was.”

              Bucky rolls his eyes heavenward as if Steve is just insufferably stupid. “It was a ‘yummy’ noise! When I’m making a ‘sex’ noise, I’ll let you know.”

              Steve eats a bite of lasagna rather than respond to that. He would very much like to be there to witness Bucky making ‘sex’ noises. He can’t quiet remember the last time he witnessed someone make genuine ‘sex’ noises. He’s pretty sure Peggy faked every orgasm the last year of their relationship.

              Bucky takes a drink of water and keeps eating. They are forced to not talk in order to consume their delicious meal. Once Bucky is done with his first piece he addresses Steve again.

              “So they’re wrong about you being a cheater.” Bucky notes. Steve assumes the ‘they’ he means is the NFL.

              Steve gives him a skeptical look. “You read the sport’s section?”

              “I’m homeless and sober. I spend ninety percent of my time board out of my skull. Newspapers are cheap. Does the stupid shit with those guys have to do with why you’re angry at God?”

              Steve blinks at Bucky a few times. “You are much smarter than I thought you would be.”

              Bucky gives him an appraising once over. “So are you. So is that it? You’re angry at God because he made you sick, cured you, made you great at something, then took it away through the greed and envy of others?”

              Steve sits back in his seat. That is actually a damn good reason to be angry at God. He could easily lie and say that is why. Maybe in a way it is. Steve hasn’t thought of it in that context before.

              “Yes and no…” Steve trails off. He bites his lower lip as he contemplates it. Since Bucky’s there and listening he decides to spitball aloud. “When I was younger I used to be pretty religious. I prayed to God to heal me and I think that those prayers were answered. I’ve always tried not to waste the gift that was given to me, you know? So I did whatever I could with my body and that’s lead me to where I am now.” Steve rubs around his mouth. “It’s just now I’m not sure if the place I’ve ended up is the right one. A lot of the things that football promotes aren’t what I would consider positive. I don’t know how you feel about it, but I can’t stand the way my fellow players treat the people they think are inferior to them.”

               Bucky looks up at the ceiling as he chews and thinks through all this. “Are you concerned that God is advocating the views promoted by football by sending you to play? I mean, you could make it that way if you tried. You certainly seem to be a ‘Godsend’ to your team. I’ve heard the word miracle thrown around a few times.”

               Steve’s ears get hot. The apples of his cheeks turn a peachy shade of pink. “I wish people wouldn’t say stuff like that, it devalues the things that really are miraculous.”

              “What?” Bucky huffs playfully. “Afraid the Almighty is going to strip you of your powers if you take pride in your work?”

              Steve looks up at him from under his lashes with a bashful smile on his lips. “Pride is a deadly sin and I’ll have you know I get way too much credit for what happens in a game.”

              Bucky tilts his head. His hair flops elegantly against his jaw on one side. “Are you dumb or modest? I’m not sure.”

              Steve is now severely flushed. This man keeps boring into him with his eyes. The hard-on he’s been developing is in no way deterred by Bucky’s intrigue. “You ask a lot of questions.” Steve cuts himself another slice of lasagna.

              Bucky grunts dismissively and flicks his gaze elsewhere. “What can I say? You’re weird. I can’t tell you the last time I met someone at NA that wasn’t on drugs, a student, or a writer. On top of that you broke my guitar and saved me, so I guess you could say I’ve got a lot of empty spaces to fill.” Bucky winks at him. Steve bites his tongue accidentally and immediately gropes for his water. Luckily the pathetic sound he makes can be explained by the injured tongue. “What’s wrong?” Bucky’s eyes grow sad and concerned again which twists Steve’s heart in the worst of ways.

              “Nothing! Ugh! Bit my tongue.” He says while trying not to move the injured muscle. The sentence sounds like mush but Bucky understands.

              Bucky nods slowly. “So that does happen to professional athletes. And here I thought only mortals experience those little indignities.”

              “Please stop.” Steve covers his face. “I hate that so much. I’m just a regular person, I’m not even that great a normal person! I’m kind of an asshole.”

              “What are you secretly a puppy murdering, fascist, pedophile when you’re not being the perfect specimen of masculinity-?”

              “Jesus Christ!” Steve groans. He sets his hands down on the table top and squares his shoulders. “Look Bucky, if you knew me at all you’d realize that the image my publicist puts out of me is about as far from the person I really am as could be! Sure maybe the Photoshopped guy with a carefully phrased bio in Men’s Health is the ‘perfect specimen’ but that guy is not me and I don’t want to be him.”

               Bucky tilts his head the opposite direction and cocks an eyebrow skeptically. The look on his face draws into question Steve’s ability to see irony.

               Oh. Of course Bucky knows how it is. Bucky is the subject of his own photoshoots and magazine articles. Bucky has been famous for more than twice as long as Steve to boot.

              “See! I told you I’m an asshole! Here I am ranting about all the bullshit they print about me and you’re _you_!”

               Bucky snorts. Steve has never met anyone that looks quite that cute when they snort. “Come on, your world is a lot different than mine. We have very different expectations put upon us. I think it’s fair to say you and I would never have crossed paths if it weren’t for whatever the fuck happened.”

               “Speaking of which, what did happen?”  Steve asks in his most undemanding of tones. He really doesn’t want to come across as pushy about this. Steve is fairly sure he’s witnessed something Bucky considers private.

               “What you mean when you broke my guitar or when you saved me from being captured by my evil record company?” Bucky rakes his fork through the sauce on his plate.

               “Uh, the later I think.” Steve covers his grimace with a lopsided smile.

               “Well…” Bucky scratches his head. His hair looks ridiculously lustrous and soft even in this dim restaurant lighting. “I guess the story starts when I was seventeen. Me and my best friend decided that if we were going to write all these kick ass songs, we should try to make a record. I’m not the best at drumming so we found Barton and put together a tape.” Bucky explains. Steve figures it must have been more complicated than that but that’s enough explanation for now. “We submitted the tape to a couple of places and within about a week we got a call from this big time record company. We hadn’t even sent a copy to them because we figured we were too small and uh, ‘off beat’. Hydra had heard about us from one of the smaller labels they own. They offered to sign us with a huge bonus. It was more than my mom paid for our house.” Bucky quirks his right eyebrow. “So like the dumb kids we were, we agreed without asking questions.

                “How long after that did Dookie come out?” Steve asks.

                Bucky looks a little proud that Steve knows the name of their first big album. “Six months. They had us re-record everything with better equipment. We quadrupled our signing bonus that year.” Bucky purses his lips for a moment. “So everything seemed pretty great until I realized my record company intended to use me for my music until I was no longer useful and then kill me with drugs and booze.”

                “That seems like a pretty big conclusion to come to.” Steve tells him with an open sincerity that he hopes doesn’t seem judgmental.

                Bucky picks up his napkin and starts folding it again. “Well it didn’t happen overnight.” Bucky remains quiet for longer than Steve was expecting.

                “How did you find out?” Steve prompts.

                Bucky doesn’t look at Steve as he answers. “It first occurred to me when they started giving me painkillers with the Xanax and alcohol they were already giving me. My manager gave me a fist-full of pills and a bottle of Grey Goose to wash it down with one night before a show. He said it was to ‘calm me down’ but I was plenty calm. Stoned you know? Of course I was already a pill popping piece of shit at that point so I didn’t argue with him.”

                Steve tries to remain neutral but it’s hard. He wrangles himself back together before he speaks. “You thought he was trying to kill you and you went along with it anyway because you…?” He’ll let Bucky fill in the blank. He can think of many equally probable responses.

                 Bucky clucks oddly and beams at Steve. Steve was not expecting that reaction. “Well I didn’t explicitly think to myself ‘Oh he’s trying to kill me!’ I just realized I could die from what they were giving me and that was kind of reckless of them. I was making them so much money, I didn’t see why they’d want me dead at the time.”

                 “Yeah! Why would they want you dead?” Steve has no answers for that blank.

                 “Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix, Jim Morrison: What do these people all have in common?” Bucky asks him with a slier version of his smile.

                 “They are all great, dead musicians?” Steve guesses.

                 Bucky waggles his eyebrows. “Who look really good on merchandise. You have no idea how much money their images alone are worth! They died young and beautiful with a couple great albums under their belts. They’re all legends now and you know their labels are still making unreal amounts of money decades after their funerals!”

                 Steve isn’t sure how rational this is. “So you’re saying that because they died young they were more valuable to a label?”

                 Bucky shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I mean who can say if they wouldn’t have gone on to write even better music, you never know.” Bucky shrugs up one shoulder in a dismissive jerk. “If you intentionally wanted to make the most off killing a rock star you would have to be sure they’d reached their creative potential and they were already set up to be a legend. With the right contract a different rock star could be groomed to be both of those things.” Bucky sits back in his seat. “You know, someone like me! When they put my contract together they wrote into the fine print that in the event of my death, my cut of the royalties goes to Hydra Records!”

                 Steve blinks a couple of times. He’s no expert on legal paperwork but that seems to be some pretty outrageous fine print. “When did you find that out?” He asks.

                 Bucky snarls in disgust at himself. “Six months into my prison sentence when I had my public defender look into it. They did a great job of keeping me too high and too busy to bother before.”

                 Steve tucks in his lips and takes a deep breath. Bucky did sign the contract when he was seventeen. What seventeen-year-old takes their time to read through a no doubt enormous document? Steve knows he’s never read his contracts all the way through. He had a lawyer do it for him instead. Bucky probably didn’t have a lawyer to make sure he didn’t literally sign away his life. What seventeen-year-old would? In any case, he can definitely see how money could be a motivator for his record company encouraging his untimely death. “So they made sure you became an addict, because everybody knows musicians kill themselves with drugs and alcohol all the time.”

                 “Yes…” Bucky simmers down, seeming content with Steve’s appraisal of his situation.

                 “So those people who came after you today were trying to bring you back to your record company?”

                 Bucky pushes his hair away from his forehead and gives his scalp a good scratch. “They’ve been trying to get me back ever since I got out of prison.

                 “Evil record company stops at nothing to retrieve rock star.” Steve states with little intonation. He’s still processing this information. “I can see how someone would think you were just on drugs.”

                 Bucky smacks his hand down on the table. Steve jumps at the violent sound. Bucky shouts, “I am not crazy! You saw them yourself! They were real and they really are trying to take me back to the fuckers who almost ruined me!” Denier and a man that must be the cook stick their heads out to check on them. Bucky shoots them a weary smile to tell them they’re fine. He leans his elbows on the table and holds his head. He strokes the fingers of his left hand through his hair as if imitating how someone else would pet him.

                 “Hey.” Steve leans forward and sets a hand down on top of that hand. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Bucky moves his other hand so that he can peer up at Steve.

                 “How did you mean it?” Bucky asks looking very vulnerable. His eyes really are possessing.

                 “Not the way you took it.” Steve insists. “It’s crazy but I still believe you. I saw it with my own eyes remember?”

                 Bucky carefully sets his hand down so Steve’s fingers remain resting on his knuckles. He sits up so he is no longer bowed over the table. “Sorry. It’s just… nobody believes me about it, not even the people at NA. They think I’m nuts, my family thinks I’m nuts, my best friend I’ve known my whole life thinks I’m nuts. About the only person who believes me is my drummer because he saw them do it to me and because he looked at the contract too.”

                 “Have you-?” Steve stops himself and covers his mouth. In doing so he takes his hand away from Bucky’s. He wishes he could put to back without seeming overly affectionate. Steve wants to ask what kind of measures Bucky has taken to try and break his contract with these monsters but he’s not sure if it’s his place. Bucky patiently waits for him to ask his question. “Is there something I can do to help you?” Steve asks hopefully. “You know, from one stupidly famous person to another?”

                 Bucky grimaces halfheartedly. “Nope, I’m pretty sure I’m just fucked. I’ve got nothing but my own questionable word to prove that anybody is trying to do me harm.” Bucky glances over at the kitchen. “Hey we should probably clear out they probably want to go home.” He gets up out of the booth and scrapes around in his pockets. He finds a couple of coins and two crumpled dollars.

                 Steve takes his wallet out and fishes out a brand new hundred-dollar bill. He leaves it on the table without a second thought. Bucky glances at it then Steve. “You didn’t have to...”

                 “I wanted to. It was delicious.” Steve says loud enough for the owner and cook in the kitchen to hear. Bucky leaves the change he found in his pocket on the table anyway and slinks out the door. He pauses outside the restaurant while Steve catches up. He stands with his shoulders up tight around his ears to ward off the autumn chill. He keeps his hands in his vacated pockets as he scuffs his shoe on the dirty door mat.

                 “I don’t think I did a very good job of answering your questions about God.” Bucky tells him. “We should exchange numbers so you can call if you have a crisis or something. I could be like your sponsor or… something.”

                 “You do realize I’m probably not the kind of person who needs NA, right?” Steve clarifies.

                 Bucky nods lightly. “Yeah I know. But if something’s eating at you so badly that you choose to go to an NA meeting, you could probably use somebody who knows what it’s like.”

                 “What’s like?” Steve asks.

                 Bucky glances over his shoulder as if he’s checking to make sure no one is listening. “Needing somebody to take you seriously.”

                 Steve smiles compassionately at the man he’s known as a friend for barely two hours. “Yeah, having the number of someone like that would be nice.” Steve takes out his phone and enters in the number Bucky tells him. Steve watches Bucky go on his way back to where he’s staying tonight for much longer than is probably appropriate. At least the talk of murder and drug addiction got rid of his boner. Watching Bucky’s ass in those jeans nearly undoes all that. Steve realizes his thoughts are wandering places they should not and quickly sets out to get back to his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhhhh. Sorry for the very long break in my updates. I had this part done(this chapter is supposed to be longer but I've been super busy these past couple of months with school and falling in love. DUN DUN DUN! Yes! I am not alone in my apartment anymore! Now I have a live in boyfriend/Dom. It's crazy. He boops me on the nose. 
> 
> -The Trollop


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